


The stories of King Jon

by nairmakgren



Series: Stories of King Jon [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 36,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10082096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nairmakgren/pseuds/nairmakgren
Summary: A collection of my shorts involving Jon as he sits on the throne of Westeros with his Queen, Sansa Stark at his side. Based on the ASOIAF setting but Jon and Sansa are the age they are in the show.





	1. Together

**Author's Note:**

> Figured I would get all my short stories up into one major thread. Enjoy!!

“How did we get here?”

That was the question that came to his lips every night. After the last petitioner had been heard, the last council meeting closed and the last oath of service or loyalty sworn, in the privacy of their royal apartments was he able to ask this freely and without fear of scorn or criticism.

Jon stared out at the moon as it rose high into the sky flanked by the twinkling stars, lighting up the sky over King's Landing – and indeed the royal palace – in a beautiful night-time display.

* * *

 A hand – smooth and comforting – laid over-top of his own. Turning his head he met the gaze of his wife and Queen. The Tully blue eyes looked into his own, and her lips were curled into a gentle and reassuring smile.

“Life has...a funny way of working, Jon.” she answered as he squeezed her hand. “I never thought I would be back here, especially as a Queen -”

His laughter cut her off. “Especially marrying me.”

She slapped his arm playfully with her free hand. “That's not what I meant, and you know it. I mean...after what I endured at the hands of...of other kings.” her voice fell quiet as her eyes gazed up to the stars.

Jon nodded. “I wish I could have helped you, Sansa. And you know it.” He regretted a great many things in his life – and one of them was not being able to help her escape the torments of Joffrey and Petyr Baelish, among other evil and scornful men.

She shook her head. “It's alright. I learned – in my own way, I was able to take the lessons they taught and grow from them.” she returned her gaze to him.

Jon felt a burning sense of loss in his heart and his eyes suddenly welled up. “I miss them.” he admitted, sighing softly. His view of the moon and its stars was replaced by the smiling faces of those he had lost – Eddard Stark, Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark, Robb Stark.

Sansa nodded. “I do too. But I know they would be proud of you. So very proud.”

Jon shrugged, wiping his eyes roughly. “We...we have to look to the future.” He knew that he could not dwell on what had been – it would kill him just as a sword or arrow would – but on what is. That was the first thing Aegon taught him.

A brief pause filled the air. “We will face it together.” Sansa broke the silence, leaning up to kiss him gently on the cheek.

Jon looked to his wife. They had been married roughly a year; it was still difficult for him to think of her as his wife, and not his half-sister. Yet for the good of the realm – and the security of the North – he did what he could.

“Aye.” Jon nodded, gently leaning in to kiss her forehead. “Together.”


	2. Justice(part 1)

Jon came to a halt near the command tent, dismounting his steed swiftly. Pausing a moment before proceeding – as all the soldiers around knelt towards him in respect – he surveyed the situation before them.

The Lion's Mouth lay before the main camp, the sounds of battle echoing back towards them. Remains of earlier battles could be seen littering the way forward – dead men, both Lannister and Targaryen alike, spent siege weapons, and rocks coated with blood – as the main army advanced towards the gate of Casterly Rock itself.

* * *

Jon sighed, entering the tent after a moment's walk. The six men gathered within all stood from their seats and bowed as he took his place at the head of the table. Maps and other parchments littered the area, and tokens denoting that of his forces – shaped as dragons – and those denoting the Lannister lions were spread evenly over the field.

His commanders briefed him on the situation – their words deliberate and optimistic. Wyman Manderly spoke of the veritable siege engines moving up the Mouth towards the gates; he made clear that it would not stand long. His great chins jiggled with every word, and Jon had to fight the urge to laugh. But it was the Lord of White Harbor who Rickon – in his capacity as Warden of the North – had sent to represent the twenty thousand northern host sent to aid him.

His brother Aegon, who had demanded the right to lead the frontal assault spoke of the glories to be found within the great fortress. “The stories say that the Rock has never fallen.” he smirked, pounding his fist on the table. “Our troops are ready, willing and able to go.”

Tyrion Lannister – the man who would become Lord of the great city – shrugged idly and spoke of the need to protect as much of the city as possible. “I would rather not rule over a pile of rubble when you are finished with it.” he mused, detailing the various passageways within the fortress itself.

Randyll Tarly was short and to the point – his words speaking only of military strength. “The Lannister host has some ten thousand standing between us and Cersei. We will suffer casualties.” he said, coldly eyeing the King. “Also we cannot discount the Frey rabble here either.”

Yohn Royce – the Lord of Runestone and Vale commander – was next. “My Knights stand ready for your orders, Your Grace. Five thousand armoured soldiers, mounted and foot. We'll run roughshod over those scum.”

“What about the hostages?” Jon asked, nodding to the sixth man. This one was a sellsword, but one of great experience and skill from what he'd been told. The man eyed him lazily.

“They'll be in the castle proper. Though I bet once that gate falls they'll be dead.” Bronn shrugged, frowning. “Shame, that.”

Jon shook his head. “Take a dozen men and get them out. You're known for scaling things, aren't you?”

The Lord of Stokeworth laughed. “Aye, I suppose so.”

Jon fingered the sword at his side restlessly. “I'd rather be out there with them. It doesn't feel right to sit here and ask men to die for me.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, knowing the answer already – he was too valuable as king to send onto the field.

“That is what soldiers do, Your Grace!” Manderly bellowed, slamming a fist onto the table. “I know you are used to leading from the front as you did at Winterfell, but this is far more then the North.”

“The fat one is right.” Tarly nodded, his eyes remaining cold and unblinking. “as King you must rule over the realm. What use are you if you charge into battle only to be struck down by some rapist with a bow?”

Jon nodded – he knew their point, but he still wanted to be out there. In the thick of things, fighting against the family that had caused so much harm and damage to the realm as a whole. It was the Lannisters who executed his father, brother, and done so much harm to his queen during her time with them.

He fondly thought of leading the charge in the North; battling with the remains of Stannis Baratheon's host to batter down the gates of Winterfell, finally freeing his childhood home from the grip of Roose Bolton. It was then he felt alive, in the fray of battle cutting down those who sought to do him harm. But back then, he had been nothing – now, he was King.

Rising to his feet he nodded. “Thank you, my lords. If you'll excuse me.”

* * *

He found Sansa outside their tent, staring up towards Casterly Rock. She smiled towards him as he set himself down beside her. “How was your meeting?” she asked, leaning over to kiss his cheek, ever so gently.

Jon nodded. “Well enough. We've made a plan to get the hostages out before we storm the gate.” He knew that the hostages included such men as Edmure Tully – Sansa's aunt – as well as Greatjon Umber, the Lord of Last Hearth; his rescue was key, as it was the Umbers who were desperate for his leadership.

“Thank you for letting me come with you, Jon.” she said, placing one of her hands in his. He had been opposed to the idea – what if something were to go wrong? - but Sansa deserved to see this just as much as he.

Jon shrugged, the warmth of her hand running up his arm. “You deserve closure.”

Sansa returned her gaze to the cliff. Jon knew who she was focused on – Cersei Lannister. The one who had tormented her just as much as Joffrey had, just as much as Baelish had. She was the last remaining piece of the puzzle for her; it was only when she was defeated and the Westerlands kneeling before the Iron Throne could his wife have peace.

“We'll get her in no time.” Jon assured her, gently taking her hand in his. “for your sake. For father's –“ he paused, biting his tongue; Ned Stark was not his father, but uncle. Yet the word was difficult to say – even in the company of Sansa. “...Uncle Eddard's sake. For the sake of peace.”

“He was your father too, Jon.” Sansa replied, frowning softly at him. “You can call him that around me. I promise.”

* * *

Jon's shoulders felt tense. So much so that he slumped down, sinking into the makeshift chair – two tree stumps – with a loud and contented sigh. “I appreciate that, Sansa. Aegon and the others...they keep reminding me that he wasn't, and it -”

“It sticks with you.” she finished, slowly drawing her hand from his own and wrapping it around his neck. She leaned up against his body as he fidgeted uncomfortably, the feel of her against him still somewhat off putting. “I can't wait to look her in the eyes again. To show her how strong I've become.”

Jon nodded. “I imagine she'll be in for a shock.”

Sansa laughed, feigning outrage. “Are you saying I was too predicable?”

“Well -” Jon began, but Sansa's pouting face caused him to stop, grinning wickedly at her.

“I am your wife now, Jon Snow.” she snickered. “those comments are not ladylike!”

Jon rolled his eyes. Some things never change.

* * *

 


	3. Justice(part 2)

The banners of House Lannister had been taken down, and the walls of the Rock now flew the dragon of House Targaryen. As Jon rode towards the great castle bearing the name of the city he took note of the city proper; debris and wreckage littered the roads, and the bodies of the dead were now being loaded onto the wagons that rumbled through the streets in an endless echo.

None the less, the damage was not as extensive as he had thought it would be; it would make the Westerlands and its reincorporation into the realm that much easier. Tyrion had been the happiest of all; the new Warden of the West had rode off on his palfrey whooping excitedly as the royal caravan entered the city.

Jon and Sansa strode up the great steps to the now opened door leading into the fortress. Soldiers lined the row, kneeling before their monarchs as they passed. Within the great hall gathered a handful of the Lannister royals – mainly the commanders of the army and lesser nobles, guarded closely by a mixture of Targaryen and Stark soldiers.

Aegon stood before them, smirking triumphantly. His brother had lead the assault on the gates – and the spattered blood and gravel adorning his armour provided ample proof. “The castle is ours, brother.” he stated, raising his sword into the air.

Jon nodded. “Good. And the royal family?” he peered towards the assembled nobles.

Aegon scowled. “In the Lord's Chamber, under guard.”

Sansa patted Aegon's shoulder, nodding to him. “Then that is where we will go.”

Jon took his wife's hand and lead her up the stairs, the Kingsguard following close behind.

Within moments they stood before a great set of double doors leading to the Lord's Chamber. Guards flanked either side of the way, and Jon's Kingsguard stood obediently behind him awaiting his command.

“Are you ready, Sansa?” he turned towards her, offering a gentle squeeze of her still clenched hand. “We don't have to do this now -”

“No, Jon.” she stated, smiling towards him. “I'm ready. I have been ready since coming to King's Landing.”

* * *

The guards threw open the doors and the monarchs stepped inside. Within the great and lavish apartment sat Cersei Lannister, reclining on a divan in the corner of the living space. Her red and gold dress was splattered with what he suspected were wine stains – and her hair was wild and unkempt.

Tommen Baratheon sat at one of the couches, playing happily with a trio of kittens.

“Queen Mother.” Jon stated simply as he and Sansa stood before her. She was – as far as he could tell – a pitiful creature. The great Cersei, queen regent in all but name. Mighty, manipulative, seductive and cunning – all told, one of the greatest kingmakers in Westeros – sneered towards them, offering a mocking smirk.

“And so here come the wolves.” she laughed, gulping down another cup of wine. “Jon Snow. Or is it Targaryen? I can't keep it straight. Apparently neither can you.” she hiccuped, turning her eye towards Sansa. “And if it isn't my little dove.”

Sansa frowned, her face growing cold and narrow. “Cersei.”

“You don't like me very much.” she replied, filling the cup once more. “and I understand the feeling. I hate you just as much as you hate me; you killed my son, along with that vile little creature who I call my brother.”

“I did not poison Joff.” Sansa protested, her hands balling into fists. “though I wish I had.”

Cersei threw her head back, cackling. “You did and you know it, you little bitch. Your lies won't help you now.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Enough of this. The Queen is not here to be tormented especially by the likes of you.”

That earned Jon an indignant scoff. “Likes of me? The likes of me? I ruled the realm when my fat lout of a husband was too drunk to stand. I, who has lost one son already and will lose another to your headsman.” she stammered, throwing the cup down to the floor, “the likes of me. Without me, little dove – you would be a stain on the floor of the Red Keep.”

Sansa lunged forward and slapped her across the face, the impact tossing Cersei backwards off the divan and onto the floor. Her face was contorted with hatred and loathing as she stared towards the staggering Lannister, her mouth curved into a snarl. “Your reign is over.”

Jon said nothing, merely watching as she stumbled back onto the divan. Cersei grabbed at her face, her eyes widened in shock. “You...actually struck me. You struck your Queen!”

“I will do more then that if you wish.” Sansa growled. “I am not the little girl you left behind. I have grown – far more then you would ever. I am a Stark of Winterfell. You forget that in your ramblings and degradation. My House's sigil is a wolf. And wolves bite back.”

“The little dove has teeth.” Cersei japed, rubbing her cheek. “So! I assume you're here to see me dead.”

Jon grimaced. “As much as you have earned it, you will be brought to King's Landing to be tried before the Iron Throne. Something you denied your victims, including my father.”

“Not your father, boy.” she snapped, winking clumsily at him. “I never thought Ned Stark had it in him. To keep a secret for so long; though to hide it from Robert, well that was easy. I hid my relations with Jaime from him, hah!”

Jon ignored her taunt; it was part of how she tried to get under their skin. “And when the trial is over and if you are judged to be guilty, your fate will be determined by the judges. Be it execution or something else.” He nodded towards the guards, who began to lift her from the divan.

“Take the Queen Mother to the royal caravan.” he ordered. Before she was lead away, a gaggle of meowing took Jon's attention away from the pathetic sight.

* * *

Tommen Baratheon stood in front of his mother, his kittens perched on his shoulders and in his hand. The nine year old frowned, and tears stained his face. “W...what are you gonna do to mother?” he whispered, trembling ever so slightly.

Jon knelt down before the boy and smiled, reaching out to idly pet one of the cats. “You must be Tommen.” The boy nodded fearfully. “You know who I am, yes?”

“The King. But...I thought I was.” he said, a look of confusion washing over his face.

“You are King, Tommen! King of Casterly Rock.” Jon smiled. “You remember Uncle Tyrion, yes?”

The boy smiled and nodded eagerly.

“Well, he is going to be staying here with you. And you will get to help him rule as King of Casterly Rock. Isn't that more fun? You can stay here, with your kittens and your toys and your books...” Jon patted him on the shoulder, the boy's tiny body relaxing slightly.

“But what about my crown?” he asked, tilting his head. “Mother said I can have a big one.”

Jon laughed. “Your uncle Tyrion will get you a big crown. I promise you. Now, your mother and I need to talk privately about settling all this fighting. Alright?”

“You won't hurt her, will you?” Tommen frowned.

“Of course not.” Jon replied, rising to his feet. “Take King Tommen to Lord Tyrion. Let him bring the kittens, too.”

As the boy was lead away Cersei growled, fighting against the soldiers who held her. “You would bequeath my son to that thing?” she snarled.

“I am keeping him safe.” Jon shook his head. “Your son is an innocent pawn of your machinations. I will not see him suffer as you have caused so many to suffer.”

Sansa squeezed Jon's hand, her eyes fixated on Cersei. “Take her away.” she ordered, her voice firm and cold.

* * *

The room emptied out leaving only the monarchs. Jon turned to Sansa, who trembled ever so slightly. “You did it.” he whispered, giving her a gentle hug. She returned it, leaning into him for support as she shuddered.

“To face her again is...still difficult.” she admitted, squeezing him tight. “yet it was...it felt good to do what I did.”

Jon nodded. “You'd give my Kingsguard a run for their money with a slap like that.”

Sansa laughed, releasing her hold upon his back. “Thank you, Jon. I...I truly mean it. This is liberating. It feels as though a dark cloud has been released from my being.” she smiled, exhaling gingerly.

“I told you, Sansa – it's justice. For you and for Father both.”

* * *

 


	4. Nerves

The celebrations rang out from King's Landing to Storm's End to Riverrun and Winterfell the day the news was announced. Ravens flew from every perch in Oldtown and found their way to every lord and regent in Westeros.

_The Queen is with child._

* * *

Jon had spent the entirety of his day accepting offers of congratulation from every member of the royal court. Delegations had ridden from Dragonstone and Storm's End with gifts from Aegon and Daenerys, both; from Aegon came the sword he had used during his travels and days as “Young Griff”, which he had included a note to gift to their son or daughter upon their coming of age.

Daenerys's gift was far more practical – several chests full of baby clothes. Cloaks, jackets, pants – all was accounted for. She was trying to ensure that the next royal child be well prepared for their coming into the world.

He found Sansa in the solar of their apartment reading – she enjoyed the many books that he'd asked for them to bring. She was garbed in her evening-wear; a loose fitting grey and blue dress, the slight straps on her shoulders being almost scandalous; at least, if it was seen in public.

Smiling, Jon sat down on the futon behind her and gently placed a kiss to her cheek, causing her to let out a faint gasp of surprise, nearly dropping her book. “Sorry I'm late – the never ending line of congratulations and petitions nearly sent me right to sleep on the Throne alone.” he sighed, feeling his muscles relax.

Sansa laughed and turned her head to him, her face glowing with a smile. “We can't have that, can we?” she teased, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him.

When she had broke the news to him Jon's mind was sent into a tailspin of emotion; he was equal parts happy and afraid. He was happy because it would finally end the pressure to produce an heir that had been on the couple since their marriage; he was afraid because he did not want his child to grow up with the same pressures that he now faced.

“Are you happy, Jon?” Sansa asked, tilting her head.

Jon nodded, wrapping his arms around her; the warmth of her skin sent pinpricks through his fingertips. “Of course I am. Just – it's hard to explain.” he sighed, unable to find the right words.

Sansa nodded. “I understand. All of this, you and me...the realm. It's quite a lot to take in.” She rose from the futon, stretching her arms out as she yawned. Jon watched her with awe – the contours of her body made his heart skip a beat.

Their bedding ceremony had been awkward, that was certain.

He had steadfastly resisted the pressures of said ceremony for the sake of Sansa as much as himself; she did not want to go through with it, he thought. Yet it was her decision that made him acquiesce to the demand – and as she had reasoned, an heir needed to be produced for the good of the realm.

They had only done the need twice since then, when it had become clear that their bedding ceremony had failed to impregnate her. But now, the deed was done – and Jon's body heaved with relief. “I'm told the Riverlands and the Eyrie are sending delegations within the moon to congratulate us.” he shrugged, rising from the seat and unbuckling his breastplate, letting it drop to the floor.

* * *

“Of course.” Sansa replied, placing the book back onto its shelf. She turned to face him, gingerly taking a few steps forward until they were face to face. “I'm...Jon, I'm nervous.” she whispered, gently reaching out to take his hand.

Jon nodded, squeezing tightly. “I know, Sansa. I am too – but we're in good hands.” Grand Maester Ebrose had reassured him that his specialty was childbirth and healing – that the Queen need not fear any malady or illness.

“I just....it's one thing to learn about motherhood, it's another to...actually be with child.” she continued, her hands shaking gently. “this is...all so overwhelming.”

Jon smiled, taking his hands and wrapping them around her back, pulling her close to him. “It's alright, Sansa. I know you're nervous – but I will be here for you all the way. Nothing will happen to either you or our babe. I promise.”

She relaxed in his embrace; Jon felt her hands wrapping around his own back in return. “Jon...thank you.” she leaned over and kissed his cheek, resting her head upon his shoulder. “for everything. I...I know you will be a wonderful father.”

“We've still got at least sixty years left to be married, Sansa.” he laughed, releasing her from his grasp. “so you won't be saying that too much longer when things start to get hairy.”

Sansa laughed too, her giggle making Jon smile beside himself. “I was already horrible to you as a child. Now...now I can make it up to you as your wife.”

Jon shrugged. “We'll have to see, won't we?”

* * *

 


	5. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is reunited with his Warden of the North.

Jon smoothed out his tunic as he stood before the throne, his eyes glaring towards the double doors at the end of the throne room. His mind was racing with anticipation; the steward had informed him the northern delegation had arrived to congratulate him and Sansa on their pregnancy.

 _Who would it be?_ Jon's mind reeled. Would Rickon send fat Lord Manderly once more? Would he send the Greatjon, who had been reinstalled as lord of House Umber following the capture of Casterly Rock? Or would he choose someone else – someone closer to him, especially now.

From his left Grenn reached out and patted his shoulder, his hand cold from the gauntlet he wore. “Nervous?” he asked, grinning gently towards him.

Jon laughed, rolling his eyes. “You know when I named you to the Kingsguard you -”

Grenn scoffed. “I didn't want to become part of yer bloody Kingsguard. But here I am, because you insisted.” he grinned, rubbing his grey and gold breastplate mockingly. “I swore the words and said the oaths – but that doesn't mean I can't rib you once in a while.”

Jon nodded. In truth he was grateful to have his former brother of the Watch here now, at his side. Most of the men he trusted or admired were up in the North at the Wall, preparing for the coming of the Others; Tormund Giantsbane, Edd, Pypar – they were unable to be here at court.

* * *

The doors creaked loudly, announcing their impending opening. Grenn quickly rushed back to his place at the side of the room, standing ramrod stiff and alert as a Kingsguard should be. The steward was the first one to enter the room, rushing up to the dais and announcing.

“All hail His Grace Jon, of Houses Targaryen and Stark. First of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Jon spied the direwolf as it bounded into the room, yapping and barking loudly. It was pure black and as large as Ghost was. His eyes went wide as he recognized Shaggydog almost at once – one of Ghost's fellow litter-mates. That could only mean...

“JON!” a voice shouted. From the head of the delegation came Rickon Stark, the boy running at full speed across the room towards him. The eight year old was dressed in fine noble regalia – a grey and blue combination vest and cloak – but the weight of his outfit did not stop him.

Jon went to his knees as his brother reached him, barreling into his arms and hugging him tightly. He felt his chest heave with happiness as Rickon sobbed into his shoulder, his own small hands squeezing his back firmly.

He had not seen the new Warden of the North since he'd left for the Wall – only hearing of his return at the hands of the Manderlys after he had retaken Winterfell and gone south to answer Aegon's challenge. Yet now, here he was.

“Am I glad to see you,” Jon wept, closing his eyes firmly in a futile attempt to hide his tears. “you look so good, little man. I missed you so much..”

“I missed you, big brother..” Rickon cried, sniffling into his sleeve. “when we got your raven Osha told me it was time for us to come see you.”

* * *

Jon looked up, noting that a woman had appeared behind Rickon. She was tall, lanky and with long brown hair. Her garb was that of a Stark servant; yet the way she carried herself was unlike any that he had ever seen.

“Now now, little lord. Let your brother go.” she patted his back gently, chuckling. “He's king and all. Gotta do his kingly shite.”

Rickon reluctantly let go, wiping his eyes as he looked around the room. Rising to his feet Jon offered the woman a smile.

“You're Osha, I take it?” he asked, reaching down to ruffle Rickon's hair.

She shrugged. “Suppose so. Can't say I've ever been in a place like this.”

“You and me both.” Jon snorted as Rickon stepped away, walking slowly up to gaze at the Iron Throne, his eyes as wide as dinner plates. “You don't seem like any retainer I've ever met.”

The woman laughed at this. “I'm not a retainer, King Crow.”

“You're one of the free folk.” Jon realized, nodding his head thoughtfully. “They're the only ones who still call me that.”

“Your ways with my people is still a thing of envy, I have to say.” Osha grinned, gently patting his arm. “the little lord and I enjoy hearing about all your stories, and trust me – up at Winterfell they're always willin' to talk about you.”

Jon smiled, sheepishly rubbing his hands together. “I'm no one special. Trust me.”

Rickon let out a cheer as he and Shaggydog began to run around the room while the other members of the delegation filed in. Osha rolled her eyes and pointed towards the young Warden. “To him, you are.”

“Aye. I suppose I am.”

* * *

 

 


	6. Reminiscence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Rickon have a nice chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, Rickon is eight years old in this storyline. just to clear up any possible confusion. <3

The clash of steel could be heard from the royal apartment balcony where Sansa and Rickon sat, watching Jon and Aegon spar below. The two fighters moved swiftly, their steps and parries in time with one another at a rapid speed.

Rickon smiled at her. “Jon's a good swordsman.” he noted, clapping his hands together.

Sansa giggled, taking his small hand in hers and squeezing it gently. It was almost more then she could bear, to see another of her family once more – after nothing but heartbreak and disappointment in regards to many others, save for Jon – that she had to fight the urge to cry. The babe growing in her stomach did not help matters.

“He is,” she agreed as Rickon squeezed her hand back. “So tell me – how is Winterfell?”

Rickon beamed, turning to smile at her. “It's going to be even better then it was!” he exclaimed, his face lighting up. “we're having it fixed up extra good, so it can be like it was when we all lived there. Maybe then you and Jon can move back.”

Sansa laughed. “You know we have to stay here, little brother. Winterfell is yours to have!”

“Well when you have the baby, you should bring them up to see the castle!” he smiled, reaching out to touch Sansa's belly softly. His smile never faded as she let him feel her growing belly. “because this means I'll be an uncle, right?”

Sansa nodded. “You and the babe will be the best of friends.”

Rickon took his hand away and went for the plate on the table between them. He picked up and messily devoured one of the applecake slices, gulping it down quickly. Sansa had to choke back a laugh – she knew that he still had many of the traits of the wildling Osha; while he was learning how to be a lord and rule properly he still was easily distracted and enjoyed running around with Shaggydog, who slept on the carpet in the bedroom.

“Shaggy's happy to see Ghost again!” he mumbled, swallowing the last of the pastry. “They were running around the castle all morning!”

Sansa thought longingly of her direwolf, who had been long dead and buried by now. Lady was on her mind every time she spotted Ghost; despite Jon's wolf doing his best to comfort her, she could not help but miss her own faithful companion. _At least she is buried at Winterfell, where she belongs._

Rickon let out a burp, laughing as he returned his eyes to Jon's sparring.

* * *

 

Sansa rubbed her stomach, feeling the babe shift within. This was normal, Ebrose had told her – there was no need for concern with the feelings of movement from even an early-forming child, yet it still made her feel uncomfortable as she developed a familiarity to it.

“Have you met Aegon?” she asked, trying to take her mind off the feelings.

Rickon nodded. “He reminds me of Jon. Always sad and quiet.” he laughed, cheering as he saw Jon disarm his brother. Still, the elder Targaryen was always polite and accommodating to the Stark family – even though Sansa always saw a fading hint of resentment in his eyes.

“Oh, he's not like that all the time now.” she replied, smiling softly. Jon was starting to develop more of a confidence – in both himself and his ability to lead. It was a slow process; he had only learned of his parentage two years prior.

“We're going to go play together later. Jon said we could see the big dragon skulls down in the cellars!” Rickon shouted, helping himself to another applecake.

Sansa laughed, offering a shake of her head. _Boys will be boys..._

* * *

 

 


	7. In Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon dreams and then he and Sansa share a tender moment.

He remembered closing his eyes but for a brief moment, in the middle of his study as he went over the various proclamations and other orders the Small Council had come up with for him to review. Jon had been at the work for hours, the endless streams of parchment making his eyes grow heavy with each passing word.

Yet now he found himself in dreams; he saw the Wall, and his brothers of the Watch including those who'd fallen – Donal Noye, Jeor Mormont, Qhorin Halfhand – and of the Free Folk, many of whom now manning the Wall and its various castles in preparation for the coming of the Others.

He felt the knives of the men who attacked him, ripping open his stomach all the while he watched his lifeblood spill onto the snow. He watched as the Red Woman with her exotic magic had pulled him from the brink of death, allowing him to carry on in his fight for the living.

Yet they were all angry. All of the dead – they cursed him with vile words for leaving, for fleeing South while they rotted in the wasteland beyond the Wall. How he was a craven leader and a bad king; one who did not deserve the crown he now wore.

Just as quickly he found himself running through the corridors of the Red Keep, chasing after his litter-mate as the black direwolf howled and raced ahead of him. The scent of his brother urged him on; the feel of hunger in his stomach grew to a frightening intensity. The guards avoided the pair with fright; a fright he could smell, making his mouth water.

But the people were not meat, and as much as he wished it otherwise he and his brother would have to settle for the kitchens. There was plenty of raw food there.

It had been too long since he had run free. The long trip to the south had allowed for plenty of hunting and game, but the confines of the city were crippling to his senses. Angry and frightened humans lurked everywhere; almost taunting him with the prospect of fresh game.

* * *

“Jon?”

Her voice snapped him free of his dreams, causing him to shoot up from the desk where his head lay. A puddle of drool had formed, staining many of the above mentioned parchments he'd hoped to review.

Sansa gently shook him, her face calm and a gentle smile upon her lips. Jon shook his head, struggling to pull his eyes open from the chaos of his nightmares. “...Sansa. Did I...fall asleep?” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair.

“Yes. I was looking for you, and the guards said you'd been in the study so...” she said, pulling a seat up next to his own. His vision had cleared and he looked to her; she wore her nightdress, the same grey and blue one that was a fixture in their night time conversations.

“Night...it's night?” Jon sighed, letting out a groan. “Seven hells, I was...trying to go over all these papers and..”

Sansa laughed. “and you fell asleep. It's alright; you've earned a good rest. Being King is a difficult task.”

Jon leaned over, placing a gentle kiss upon her cheek. _Without you, I'd be a damn fool playing as King._ “You should do it; let me be the royal...sleeper?” he smirked, his mind still somewhat groggy from his impromptu nap.

Sansa rolled her eyes at him, gently rising to her feet. “Come on, let's get you to bed.” she whispered as he let out an exhausted sigh, struggling to his feet. His legs creaked in protest yet he persisted.

Jon looked to his wife once more, realizing just how lucky he was. Sansa was always a beautiful woman by his own standards, even going back to when they were siblings – he knew she would marry a proper suitor one day, as did her mother – but now that he was said suitor, he was able to better see the radiant beauty standing before him.

“You're beautiful, Sansa. I know...I haven't said that much.” he mumbled, rubbing his forehead with embarrassment. “but I should say it, just to make you...you feel good.”

A faint blush came over her cheeks as she helped guide him to the door. “T-thank you, Jon.” she smiled, leaning over to kiss his cheek gently.

Jon's hand grazed ever so softly against her stomach, feeling the life of their babe growing within. He leaned over, catching Sansa's lips in his own before she could reach his cheek. They stood like that – tangled in each others arms, lips locked together firmly – for what felt like several minutes; an eternity to Jon's mind.

Breaking the kiss Jon smiled. “Just as I imagined.”

Sansa brought a hand to her lips, eyes slightly widened with wonder. “You imagined kissing your sister, did you?” she teased.

“Who said it was when we were siblings?” Jon shot back, his hand reaching for the door.

* * *

 

 


	8. Blackfyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aegon gifts Jon an important artifact.

Jon looked to his brother with confused eyes. “Aegon, wha -” he began, staring between his eyes and the sword that he held aloft. A low chuckle escaped from his lips as he pulled the blade free of its scabbard slightly, the steel shining in the light of the throne room.

“The ancestral sword of Aegon the Conqueror – Blackfyre.” he smirked, sheathing the blade. “supposedly lost to history – but all this time with the Golden Company, kept safely stashed away. I guess Bittersteel wasn't very...shall we say, confident in the other pretenders.”

Jon's mouth opened as he stared towards the blade with wonder and incredulity. Hesitating he ran a hand over the scabbard and hilt, fingers brushing against the ruby at the pommel. “It's just like the stories said...” he whispered in awe.

Aegon rolled his eyes as he thrust the sword towards him. “Take it. You are the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and the blade is meant for a ruler. The Blackfyres – they were never true rulers. But you, my brother – you are a Targaryen.”

Jon felt himself growing faint. He stumbled slightly, grasping onto one of the great pillars for support. His Kingsguard quickly moved towards him with concern but he waved them off. “I...no, I can't accept this.” he insisted.

 _I'm not a Targaryen_ , his mind urged him to say. To proclaim that he _would be a Snow or a Stark – but never a dragon._ That he was of the North, not of the south or of ancient Valyria. But to deny his lineage was to deny a part of him, and now that he sat the Iron Throne he had to play along in some regards.

“You can and you will.” Aegon chuckled, reaching out with his free hand to grasp Jon's arm softly. “This blade represents us. It represents all monarchs before you, and will represent all those who come after you. It says to the world that you are Jon of the House Targaryen – and that you carry the blade of Aegon himself.”

Jon reached out and grasped the blade, his trembling hands wrapping it about his belt and clasping it around him. The sword hung on his left side, firm and steady on his hip. His brother nodded with approval as Jon brought his hands to his face, exhaling sharply.

“There is one other reason I give you this blade, Your Grace. How better to show that you have the support of Daenerys and I for when Prince Doran arrives?” Aegon said, folding his arms over his chest. “Like it or not, when our father ran off with your mother it insulted the Martells greatly, you know.”

Jon nodded; he'd been wracked with anxiety since the raven informing the court that the Martells were en route to pledge fealty to the Iron Throne. “That should make for an...awkward meeting, then.” he frowned.

Aegon took this in stride, offering a shrug. “Not to worry; I've spoken with my uncle and his family. They're looking forward to meeting you after the praise I delivered.”

“Praise?” Jon narrowed his eyes.

Aegon smiled in response. “I told them that you are doing a wonderful job as King and are as worthy to bear the name Targaryen as I am.”

* * *

Later that day Jon stood in his chambers, admiring the blade in the mirror. “The ancestral sword of Aegon the Conqueror...” he whispered, still astonished by the mere presence of it. He ran his free hand along the pommel once more.

“It's beautiful, Jon.” Sansa offered; she stood to the right of the mirror, smiling happily. “You are a worthy successor to hold the blade.”

“I'm not, Sansa.” he grinned, offering a shrug as he returned the blade to its scabbard. “it just feels...wrong to hold such a relic. It's like I am...I don't know, casting aside part of who I am by accepting it.”

Sansa placed a hand upon his shoulder. “You are Jon. Jon the King, Jon the warrior – Jon the Stark.” she assured him, rubbing her hand into his tense muscles. “Jon the husband and Jon the father-to-be.” she added, gently grasping one of his hands and placing it upon her belly.

Jon turned his head to her smiling face, feeling the warmth of the child within her. “Those...those things I am, I suppose.”

“No, not you suppose.” she scolded, shaking her head. “you are all of these things. Guaranteed.”

Jon let a smile creep onto his face. She always knew how to cheer him up, how to bolster his confidence; Sansa was a bedrock for him continuing as King given his continued reluctance to serve in such a high position. _It's a great deal more then Lord Commander,_ he laughed. “Are you ready to meet Prince Doran?” he asked her.

Sansa nodded. “I am.” she raised a slender brow. “are you, Jon? I know that things can be...tense due to the circumstances.”

He nodded, exhaling sharply. “As King I have to be ready, I suppose.”

* * *

 

 


	9. A Martell Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon entertains Prince Doran of House Martell. Some awkward moments for him follow.

The Dornish delegation entered the throne room, the red and yellow banners of House Martell leading the procession. Soldiers clad in the traditional light leather and cloth marched behind them, hands on their blades. Finally, behind the soldiers came Doran Martell – being pushed in his wheelchair by a very large dark-skinned man, who Jon presumed was his bodyguard.

His stomach felt ready to strangle itself due to his anxiety over this; beads of sweat ran down from his forehead, which he stopped to wipe up quickly. Sansa, who stood next to him in her blue-and-grey formal dress, smiled and squeezed his arm gently. “It will be okay, Jon. I promise.” she assured him, nodding in the process.

* * *

Aegon had gone to meet the Martells first, and Jon watched as he embraced his uncle in a tight hug. He heard them laugh as a woman, wearing a flowing orange dress sauntered up beside the sitting Martell and hug Aegon herself, whispering something into his ear. Jon shifted uncomfortably as he waited for the approach – all the while wishing he could run away and forget the whole thing.

Eventually after what felt like an eternity the delegation approached the platform leading to the Iron Throne where Jon stood. Aegon helped Doran out of his wheelchair and the assembled knelt in unison before him. He quickly waved them to stand and stepped down the platform, offering a hand to Doran in the process, who took it with a smile.

“Uncle – may I present King Jon, the First of His Name of House Targaryen.” Aegon gestured to Sansa, who had stepped down to join him, “and his bride, Queen Sansa of House Targaryen.” The couple offered a bow.

Aegon took Jon's arm gently. “Jon, this is Doran Martell, Prince of Dorne – and my uncle.”

Jon only used the official Targaryen name during official proceedings – and this was done mostly at the insistence of Aegon and Daenerys. The small council had also recommended such an act; it would best serve to placate the Dornish to the new king.

Doran smiled, waving over the girl in the orange dress. “Your Grace – may I present my daughter and heir, Arianne of House Martell.” He groaned as his legs began to shake, Aegon quickly helping him back to the chair.

Arianne pulled Jon in for a tight hug, pressing her body against his own. He shuffled uncomfortably at the action being unused to such...closeness in any kind of royal capacity. She was an attractive woman, of that there was no doubt; yet even with her buxom body and unblemished face Jon tried not to catch himself staring.

“I am honored to welcome you here on behalf of the Iron Throne.” Jon said, releasing his hug on Arianne, who turned to do the same to Sansa.

“Forgive me, Your Grace – my legs are not as strong as they used to be. The gout, it...ravages my body.” Doran moaned, shuffling in the chair as he wrapped a blanket around his reddening legs. “yet, I insisted to Aegon that I stand and kneel before you all the same.”

Jon sighed. “My lord, please do not injure yourself on my behalf -”

Arianne – who had finished kissing Sansa on the cheeks – let out a laugh. “Your Grace, my father will do what he wishes – and he truly desired to meet you.” she purred, running a hand up his arm.

Sansa offered a hand to Doran, who dutifully kissed it. “My Queen, I am also honored to meet you at last. May I offer the congratulations of Dorne on being with child so soon.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Prince Doran. I...we are quite happy with the outcome.” she nodded, patting her belly.

Jon turned his head to Aegon. “Prince Doran – I believe you and I should speak in private, yes? Allow the Queen and your daughter time for introductions?”

* * *

The godswood in the Red Keep is a small and intimate setting; the “heart tree” not being a true weirwood; the old gods were not as powerful this far South, Jon knew. Yet for his purposes with Prince Doran – it would serve nicely.

The two men sat at one of the great benches nearest the heart tree – a large oak with a smiling face carved into it. Doran's bodyguard Areo Hotah stood some distance away, far enough to give them privacy but close enough to attend his master if needs arise.

Jon had laid Blackfyre out on the bench next to him, allowing the prince to handle the blade, which he did slowly and carefully, with reverence and awe. “Aegon presented it to me just...just before your arrival.” he admitted, chuckling, “he said it was with the Golden Company the whole time.”

Doran laughed. “That sounds like something he would do.” he placed the blade back down upon its scabbard. “thank you for showing me this, Your Grace. I am most honored to see the blade of Aegon the Conqueror back in the hands of one who holds the dragon blood.”

Jon nodded, sighing softly. _Time to bear it all,_ he mused. “I am glad you came, Prince Doran. I wanted...needed to discuss things with you, for the good of both our peoples. I know that my...my father insulted your family when he and my mother eloped.”

For his part, the aged prince smiled sadly and offered a slight nod. “My sister Elia – she was so in love with Prince Rhaegar. She doted on him, truth be told.” he tapped his fingers gently against his legs as he looked up to the tree's tall branches.

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Jon knew this had to be said, had to be done – he did not want any double-dealings or resentment to be held against him from Dorne, especially now. “My point being that...if you hold any resentment towards me for becoming King over Aegon, a child born to your sister...”

Doran snorted, raising a hand. “Your Grace, I hold no hatred or feelings for you at all. You are not Rhaegar Targaryen – and as for Aegon, he told me that it was his brash and flippant demand for a duel that cost him the crown.”

“I have offered to relinquish the crown to him on many an occasion.” Jon said, rubbing his neck in an uncomfortable manner. “the truth is, I never wanted to become King of anything. My only goal was to free Winterfell from House Bolton, which I helped to do.”

The Dornishman nodded, his eyes now focusing upon Jon. “I noted that you hesitated to call Rhaegar your father. I'm sure that Aegon would not appreciate that.”

* * *

Jon allowed himself a chuckle. “Learning this...all about who I am, my heritage...everything. It's still a major shock for me to accept. Especially -”

“Especially since you know your father to be Eddard Stark.” Doran replied, smiling. “and you always will consider him your father. Will you not? You need not hide things from me, Your Grace; what we speak of here is between us.”

Jon had to fight back his emotions at the mention of his father's name; he remembered the last conversation that they had; he'd promised to tell Jon all about his mother the next time they spoke – which was not to be, given that he'd lost his head at the hands of Joffrey Baratheon not long after. “...yes, you are right.” he wiped at his eyes.

The prince patted his upper arm softly in a comforting manner. “It is not easy, to be the child of two worlds.”

 _I have to be strong,_ Jon knew. _For the sake of Westeros._ “I...I endure. For the sake of peace – and for that of my Queen.” He smiled, thinking of Sansa; she was a stable influence on himself and his crisis of identity.

Doran nodded, allowing another moment of silence. Jon was to break it once more – this time for official business. “I wanted to inform you as well that we are trying Cersei Lannister before the throne. I would like you to sit as one of the judges involved.”

“I would be honored.” he replied, bowing his head.

Jon let out a sigh of relief; that was much easier then expected. “The trial will take place when I return from the Riverlands.”

“What business brings you there, if I may be so bold?” Doran asked, raising a slender eyebrow.

Jon's face hardened slightly. “Justice.”

* * *

 

 

 


	10. Robb's Justice(Part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and the Riverlords plan an attack on the Twins.

The assembled riverlords had gathered at a large camp just south of the Twins. As Jon rode up to the command tent he spied the various banners of the Riverlands and their houses – Mallister, Tully, Blackwood, Bracken, Vance, Piper. All Houses that had been affected by the long and agonizing war of the so-called “Five Kings”.

His Targaryen host – some two thousand strong – began to assemble their own camp as Jon entered the tent. All of the various lords that were gathered took a knee to him until he sat, at which time they returned to their own chairs. He'd brought only one Kingsguard with him, Grenn – who stood obediently at his side.

“My lords,” Jon began, folding his hands on the table, “I am glad to see that you have all assembled in a timely and orderly manner.”

Jonos Bracken, the Lord of Stone Hedge was the first to speak up. “When you told us of this mission, Your Grace – we jumped at the chance. I've been wanting to get my hands on the Freys since the Red Wedding; now I'll have a chance.”

“Which is why you were the first to bend the knee, Jonos.” Tytos Blackwood grumbled from across the table, staring daggers into the Bracken lord. “some of us held out for as long as we could; Raventree Hall being the last of them.”

“How dare you!” Jonos roared, jumping to his feet. A glare from Jon forced him back into his seat as he ran a hand over Blackfyre.

Jon sighed, rubbing his head. The ancient rivalry between the Blackwoods and Brackens had been unsolvable by any King, before or since – and even the Tullies were barely able to keep the peace at the best of times. “We leave our squabbles at the door. Right now, our target is the Twins. Am I clear?”

“His Grace is correct,” chimed Clement Piper, his double chin jiggling as he nodded. “Now that Marq has come home from Casterly Rock we have no reason to remain silent any longer.”

Edmure Tully, the Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands was noticeably silent. Jon raised a brow; Sansa had told him that her uncle was a talkative man, always willing to offer advice or council.

“Lord Edmure,” Jon asked, focusing his eyes toward him. “does something trouble you?”

Edmure sighed, rubbing his eyes in a dejected fashion. “Apologies, Your Grace – being here again brings back the memories of my captivity. Something I...I would not wish to relive.”

Nodding, Jon closed the subject. Instead, the lords planned for the attack; it would be a simple plan – given that the Riverlands host combined with Jon's own numbered some six thousand, while the Frey garrison at the Twins was expected to be no more then two thousand, with half of their number having joined the defense of Casterly Rock.

“The Blackwoods will have the right flank along with the Pipers and Vances. Lord Jonos, you and the Mallisters will take the left flank. Spare no man who throws down his sword in surrender; they did not spare any of your men during the Red Wedding, so why should we spare theirs?” Jon ordered, his face growing hard. _This is for Robb_ , he thought to himself.

A King must take these actions to set an example – and House Frey had certainly deserved to be made an example of. “The Tully forces and I will storm the Twins personally – the majority of the Targaryen host will remain in the rear to prevent any escapes.”

Jon had named Ronnet Connington to command his host; he was currently overseeing the preparations for the rearguard action. “My Lords – I know all of you want revenge upon the men who sit the Twins. I am of the same feelings as you. But I tell you now that we will all share in meting out justice to the Freys on the morrow. Do not despair based on where I have named your forces to go.”

The various lords bellowed their approval. It was good to see them getting along, at least for the moment. “Now, I advise you all to get some rest – tomorrow we bring ruin to House Frey.”

* * *

As the tent emptied out Jon allowed himself a smile, reclining in the chair with a contented sigh. He reached up and removed the crown he'd been forced to wear – Aegon had insisted on him showing his authority – and ruffled his hair.

He felt fresh tears well in his eyes as he thought of Robb and the last time he'd spoken with him.

“ _The next time I see you, you'll be all in black.”_

“ _It was always my colour.”_

“ _Farewell, Snow.”_

“ _And you, Stark.”_

But that was the past, sadly; Robb was gone and there was no bringing him back. At the very least, he could bring him justice, along with the men who'd fallen at the Twins thanks to the Frey's treachery.

Every time he thought of his brother Jon's mind went back north. To Winterfell, where Rickon now sat as Warden. To the castle of his childhood, where he had learned to grow and thrive as a man – even under the difficult circumstances he had endured there. To the godswood, where his father's gods held court.

He wanted desperately to go home. To cast aside everything, take Sansa and leave. Damn the crown, damn the sword, damn Aegon – everything. To live a simple life in the North, raising a simple family with his wife. To walk among the crypts of the Kings of Winter once again...

Yet he knew that was a fantasy at best. He was King and he had to lead. It was just as Maester Aemon had told him back on the Wall; _kill the boy, Jon Snow – and let the man be born._ As he reached up to wipe his eyes, he wondered what his great-uncle would think of him, now; sitting here, commanding all of the forces of the Seven Kingdoms.

* * *

Rising to his feet he exited the tent, replacing the crown atop his head. Grenn followed behind him as he walked through the camp, the night sky shimmering overhead. “Jon?” his friend called, catching up with him. “are you alright?”

Nodding, Jon patted Grenn on the shoulder. “Just...thinking. About those long gone and simpler times.”

Grenn allowed himself a smile, shuffling in place as his armour creaked slightly. “Tell me about it. I wish you'd never asked me to put on this fucking cloak.” he jested, chuckling aloud as he gestured to the white Kingsguard cloak on his back.

Jon snickered. “You could have said no.”

* * *

 

 


	11. Robb''s Justice(part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Riverland host attacks the Twins and Jon metes out justice to the old prune Walder Frey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fire and blood indeed ;D

The Frey soldier's blow bounced off his shield, staggering the man as he tried to rebalance himself. Jon took the opportunity and lunged forward with Blackfyre, stabbing his way clean through the man's chest and out his back. As his attacker fell, Jon pivoted around to view the battlefield.

The attack was going smoothly as expected; the massive Riverlands host had fallen onto the Twins in the early dawn hours, and chaos was now taking hold for the defenders there. The right flank – made up of the Blackwoods, Pipers and Vances – was fanning out through the various camps on the right hand of the castle, slowly and methodically burning down all the tents they came upon; any soldier caught within was burned up in minutes.

To the left – near the banks of the Trident – the Brackens and Mallisters had formed a shield-wall against the frantic Frey host, who crashed uselessly into the shields and died on their spears. They were making the same progress as the right flank, slowly burning out any stragglers they came across.

This only left the middle, where Jon and the Tully host were battling their way. They had already hacked through the majority of the main defense and were nearing the outer gates leading into the castle itself. The Tully soldiers fought with incredibly ferocity, each man cutting down at least two Frey soldiers each as they advanced.

Jon rushed ahead through the fray, finding Grenn as he slashed the throat of his attacker. Grinning, Jon smashed his shield into the chest of a charging soldier, knocking him clean to the ground. As the man wheezed Jon drove his sword into the man's gut over and over again, blood spattering against his armor even as he cried for mercy.

_You gave Robb no mercy – and so I will give you none in return._

If he dared to show any mercy to the Freys he would damage his credibility with the River lords, and that was something he could not and did not want to do; they would fall as planned.

Great plumes of smoke rose from the grounds of the castle as the attackers made it to the outer gate, which was closed but reinforced very little; the timing of the attack had not allowed the defenders to prepare any kind of response. Just as Jon wanted.

“Jon!” Grenn shouted, rushing over to his side. His grey Kingsguard armor was covered in splotches of blood and dirt yet he himself was uninjured. “We're here. The gate.” he looked up, nodding to the great towers before them.

The rest of the Tully host had assembled there, and all of the men looked to Jon for their instructions. At the head of the scaled force stood a man he was familiar with by reputation if not personally – Brynden Tully, also called the Blackfish. He was brother to the late lord Hoster and was Lady Catelyn's favorite uncle.

The man's scaled armor was soaked with blood, and his face ran with dirt that stained his beard an earthy brown. He looked to Jon with an expectant nod. Edmure had been able to track down the man after Jon had recaptured the Riverlands from the Lannisters, and he was all too willing to fight against Cersei and her minions.

Jon grinned, feeling the emotions boiling over inside of him. It was said that Targaryens were able to harness their anger in such a way that made them terrifying to their enemies, yet also due to the generations of inbreeding in the house, had a chance to make them unstable and insane – just as with the Mad King.

Yet the anger he felt was justified – and intense. “Break it down.” he ordered, gesturing to the gate.

* * *

They found Walder Frey inside the great hall, the shriveled prune of a lord slumped in his chair. His beady eyes glared malevolently around him as Jon entered, finding the rest of the riverlords already inside. A plethora of dead bodies lined the floor and tables in the room – those of Frey soldiers and servants stupid enough to fight back.

The lords and guards knelt as Jon entered, walking up to the dais where the elder Frey was sat. As he stared down at the pitiful figure before him, Jon fought to empty himself of any pity or remorse he might feel at the sight of this man, who appeared defenseless and weak before him. He was skeletal thin and frail, and his limbs shook with every bare movement.

But this was also the man who had given guest right to Robb and his men, and repaid them with blood. “Lord Frey.” Jon stated, his tone icy and cold. “I assume you know why we are here.”

“I could hazard a guess, heh.” the man croaked, taking a feeble sip of wine, “probably has something to do with the Young Wolf, seeing how you're his brother and all. Or something like that, heh.”

Jon bit his tongue at the almost casual tone the man took. “More then that. You did not bend the knee to King's Landing when we took the throne. You sent men to support House Lannister at Casterly Rock. And, what is more – you ran rampant over the lands of these lords gathered before you.”

Walder looked out over the gaggle of glaring men. “Ahh yes, the riverlords. So reliable and loyal they are, heh. Why they bent the knee as fast as they did when the Young Wolf was hunted down – heh.” he laughed, wheezing and hoarse.

“Kill him, Your Grace! He does not deserve to breathe the same air as us.” shouted Tytos Blackwood.

Jonos Bracken hit his chest angrily. “Make it slow and painful!”

“Take him apart one by one!” came Clement Piper.

Jon grinned. “It seems that the lords do not care much for you. I wonder why that might be?”

Frey raised his goblet once more. “Couldn't say, heh. Always been jealous of the wealth of my House, I suppose. Just like my moron sons and daughters, heh.”

“Grenn.” Jon commanded, as his friend walked behind the lord's chair. “His fingers.”

In a flash Grenn had grasped the wrinkled and frail hands of the lord and held them, palms down on the table before him. Frey let out a wheezed and pained whimper, struggling feebly.

“Now let's not be hasty, King Jon, heh...I can give you a great deal of things, you know...wealth, power...your choice of women, I am a generous and grateful ally...” he pleaded, his eyes going wide.

“Of that I am sure.” Jon nodded.

* * *

 

In a flash he had sent Blackfyre swinging down onto the man's hands, severing all eight of his fingers. Blood spurted from the open wounds as Frey howled in agony, flailing wildly as he stumbled from his chair, gasping pathetically as the blood began to pool around him.

Jon picked up a finger. “Vance. Piper. Bracken. Blackwood. Mallister. Tully. Stark. Seven fingers for seven lords. A reminder of the price of treachery and dishonour. A grim trophy for you, my lords – but an apt one.”

Each man stepped up to the dais and chose a finger for himself.

When the deed was done, a group of guards pushed two struggling men forward into the hall. “My lords,” the head guard announced, turning his head to the men. “Lame Lothar and Black Walder Frey, as ordered.”

Jon sheathed Blackfyre and looked to the lords. “These men helped carry out their father's plans for the Red Wedding. I leave their fate – and punishment – up to you.”

The screaming began just as Jon and Grenn left the hall, the finger he had chosen from Walder Frey in his back pocket.

* * *

 

 

 


	12. A Lady's Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King meets with a certain Lady and her band of not so merry men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to let yall know I'll be getting some tender Jonsa moments in don't you worry!!

The messenger found the royal host just as it was passing through Oldstones. A solitary rider, bearing a pocked and torn banner galloped towards them, dismounting his horse before the royal caravan. The man was big and brawny, with a fierce and determined look in his eye.

“I bring a message for King Jon!” he shouted, raising his hands high in the air as the soldiers surrounded him. “Message fer the King!”

Jon hopped down from his wagon and hurried to the front of the train. He regarded the messenger with a wary eye. “If this is a trick, messenger...” he said, one hand resting comfortably on his blade.

The man offered a slight bow, his yellow cloak flapping in the breeze of the morning air. “No tricks, m'lord. I come at the behest of the brotherhood. We've heard of your attack on the Twins – and needless to say, the Lady is very interested in meeting you.”

Jon nodded slowly, his face betraying a hint of recognition. “You're one of the brotherhood without banners, I take it?” The exploits of this particular group of outlaws was well known to him – they had spent most of the war in the riverlands, hanging those sworn to House Frey from tall trees wherever they could be found.

The man nodded, offering a smile. “That I am, m'lord. As I said, the Lady's always been keen to meet the new King of Westeros. She told me herself.”

Grenn, who by now had appeared at Jon's side, glowered menacingly towards the brawny man. “You just expect the King to wander off with you to meet a band of brigands? I wouldn't listen to 'em, Jon. Likely a trap.”

“I can assure you, Ser Knight – there's no fools 'round here but the dead ones back at the Twins.” Lem quipped, letting out a throaty laugh.

“It's alright Grenn,” Jon said, exhaling gently. “I'd be happy to meet your Lady. But on one condition – I bring my own escort. Not that I don't trust you – but given the...valuable nature of my person it would be better served to not be alone out here among the ruins.”

Lem gestured towards the woods. “Agreed, m'lord. Now, when you're ready – be followin' me. I'll take you to the Lady. She's not far.”

* * *

Jon chose a half-dozen men, including Grenn and Ronnet Connington, to accompany him. The party plunged through the forest, his guards eyeing the various trees and rubble-strewn grounds with caution. Grenn in particular stuck close to Jon – his hand always on his blade.

“Rest assured, m'lord...the Lady isn't stupid enough to try and kill a King.” Lem said as he guided them through the brush. “she give me specific instructions. Get the King, an' bring him back to meet with her. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Connington was skeptical. He scoffed openly, “That is what you say now, but when we get to your encampment and find ourselves outnumbered – what then, hmm?” He grumbled, keeping one hand on Jon's upper arm as a gesture of protection.

Lem laughed, stepping over a fallen log. “Here we are. Like I said, didn't take long.”

The brotherhood's camp was a mess of tents, furs and various crates and wagons strewn this way and that in a large clearing, resting at the mouth of a small cave. Jon counted at least two dozen men all milling about as they entered. Each one stopped to gawk at him as they saw the royal party arrive.

This only caused his guards to close in tighter around him. “Here we are, Lem. Now, where is your Lady?” he asked, peering about through the various gaunt and scarred faces.

* * *

“Jon? Jon Snow, is that really you?” a voice called out from the gaggle. Turning his head sharply, Jon saw a man in sheepskin furs, shaggy and thin approaching him, his eyes wide with astonishment. He did not recognize the figure, but the man clearly knew him.

“Do I know you, ser?” Jon asked, raising a brow.

The man laughed, rubbing his beard. “I...right, I look different from when you saw me last. I remember – you were leaving for the Wall, right? It's a small world indeed. It's me, Harwin.”

Jon studied the man's face closer, narrowing his eyes. It took a few moments, but he was able to point out the features of the man he remembered – minus the beard, and add some pounds – and it was indeed him. “Seven Hells, Harwin...” he whispered.

He tried to approach Jon, arms open in an embrace but was stopped by Grenn, who shoved a hand onto his chest. “No closer!” he warned, drawing his blade ever so slightly out of its scabbard.

“It's alright Grenn, let him through.” Jon commanded, embracing the man in a brotherly hug.

“I never thought I'd see the day – you, a King and a Targaryen to boot.” Harwin mumbled, patting Jon's shoulder roughly. “How far might we rise, eh?”

Jon felt himself flush from embarrassment. “I'm still me, Harwin. Nothing's changed save my...well, where I sit and order people around from. Went from Castle Black to the Red Keep; nice change, eh?”

“And I went from Winterfell to the riverlands; nice change of scenery, at least.” he said, still grinning towards Jon. “Anyway, when we found out about your true parentage – needless to say, those of us who were sworn to your father was shocked.”

Jon nodded. “No more shocked then I was, I'm sure.”

Harwin squeezed Jon's shoulder. “No matter, eh? We are who we are. Anyway, I'm sure the Lady wants to meet you. That right, Lem?”

The big man with the cloak nodded. “Aye. She'll be along any time now. And Harwin? Best get in place – you know the Lady needs you to speak for her.”

* * *

With that he moved off, going to stand near the cave entrance.

Jon folded his arms, peering about the camp closely. If there were any signs of who this “Lady” was, he could not find them. The rumours were wild and, likely false – a lover of Beric Dondarrion, a zombie risen from the North, even a manifestation of the Lord of Light – but it made for some good entertainment, he supposed.

“Give the word, Your Grace.” Connington whispered, his blade half drawn from its scabbard. “we'll slay these outlaws and make for the convoy.”

Jon raised a hand, nodding. “Keep your guard up. Just in case.”

At once the assembled men went silent, going onto one knee, the sounds of footsteps echoing around them. Jon peered about expectantly, waiting for an ambush – his men did the same – yet there was no sign of any attack or hidden assassins.

A woman – by the looks of her body – stepped into view from the mouth of the cave. She wore a black robe as dark as night, with a hood covering her head. A set of yellow eyes stared out from the canvas, and Jon saw the faint outline of a scarf wrapped about her mouth and nose.

_The Lady Stoneheart, I presume._

The woman gestured to the kneeling men, who rose to their feet. Harwin fell in behind her as she walked carefully towards Jon and his party. Her stride was deliberate and slow, her body posture confident and firm. As she grew closer to him Grenn stepped in front, raising a hand to her.

“No further!” he warned, looking between the Lady and Harwin. “Stay there. The King will decide to treat with you or not.”

* * *

The Lady remained quiet, staring ominously to Grenn's outstretched hand. Jon bit down on his lip, watching with apprehensive fear. It was Harwin who broke the silence as he stepped up to the Kingsguard. “The Lady needs to be close to those she speaks with. Took an injury as a child, and her voice is hoarse and rough. It's why I speak for her.”

“It's alright, Grenn. Let her be.” Jon ordered, releasing his withheld breath. As he moved to stand at Jon's left, the Lady stepped closer to him – almost touching his chest. A smell – one of some foul unpleasantness – followed in her wake. The yellow eyes now fixated upon him as she seemed to study Jon carefully.

“So, you must be the Lady Stoneheart, leader of these brothers.” he began, hiding his left hand behind his back as it shook violently. “Your man Lem tells me that -”

A bare talon grasped at his chin, cupping underneath it. Her fingers were white as a sheet, the hands that came with them cold and heavily scarred. Jon's escort quickly moved to surround her, ready to draw their blades – but with a wave of his remaining hand he bid them to hold.

Her hand moved up his face, touching his cheek, then nose, then forehead. It then ruffled his hair ever so briefly. “Harwin...” he asked, his eyes fixated on the man.

“The Lady says she needs to see if it's really you.” he replied, offering a sympathetic smile. “It's how she determines who she speaks with. Don't want an impostor King here, do we?”

“Satisfied?” Jon grumbled, running a hand over his face after she had removed hers. The warmth of life flowed back into his cheeks as he sighed with relief – the touch of the woman was almost as cold as that of the Wall.

Stoneheart nodded, gesturing to Harwin who went to her side. Jon heard her speak – the voice was hoarse and unintelligible, almost like a cacophony of snakes hissing as one. Yet the northman seemed able to understand her, and he nodded respectfully.

“The Lady thanks you, for your attack on the Twins. The destruction of House Frey has long been our goal but we've lacked the numbers to do what you did.” he grinned, patting Jon's shoulder, “we can say the Red Wedding's been properly avenged now, at least in part.”

* * *

Jon nodded. “In part? Walder Frey, most of his sons – they're all dead. I've placed bounties on those who live that won't surrender to the Tully host.”

“Aye, and the Lady knows that.” Harwin replied, tilting his head towards Stoneheart. “You sure?” he whispered, raising a brow at her. “If that's what you wish..”

With a swift motion of her hands the hood was pulled down, revealing the Lady's hair – rotting and white, with chunks of it missing from her scalp. Her skin was as pale as those of her fingers, and parts of her head were beginning to turn a sickly grey.

Slowly she unraveled the scarf from around her neck, passing it to Harwin.

It was then she turned around to face him – and Jon's eyes went wide with terror as he saw Catelyn Stark staring back at him.

* * *

 

 


	13. The Lady's Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Stoneheart makes an offer to King Jon.

Her eyes were even worse then those of his youth – they bored into his skull and laid his mind bare with the barest of glances. Jon felt his body growing tense with fear, and the tremors took hold of him as he tried desperately not to flee back in the other direction.

“Seven hells!” Grenn shouted, a look of revulsion on his face. “What the fuck are you?!”

Lem broke the silence by laughing as he strolled over to the party. “Surprised? Aye, I was too when I first saw it. About gave it that look, myself. But the Lord of Light rose her to carry on fighting against those what wronged her.”

But worst of all was the hideously unhealed slash to her throat – so deep that he could see the glistening bone behind the grey flesh. Jon could not speak. He could barely breathe – the more she stared at him the worse these feelings got.

After a few moments he was finally able to regain enough courage to speak. “I...I don't even k-know what to...say. I've heard of the powers of the L...red priests...” he croaked, shaking his head in astonishment. “You...you're the last person I expected to see again..”

“She knows the truth of your family – obviously.” Lem added, patting Jon's trembling arm as he walked behind him. “I still have to chuckle. The honourable Ned Stark, lying for twenty odd years about something this -”

A glare from Stoneheart silenced him as he meekly bowed and shuffled off.

Within seconds she was against his chest as before, her evil eyes glaring back towards him. Slowly she brought one of her hands to her throat, and placed the palm over the wound. “Vengeance...” she croaked in her wheezing gasp.

“Aye. You w-want revenge against the Freys...I know.” Jon stammered. “S...so did I. That was why we attacked them. Finally – we got justice for Robb. A-and for you.”

Stoneheart nodded slowly. “Missing...one...” she wheezed, snapping a rotting finger at Harwin.

“Right, the Lady wanted to offer you a deal.” he hurriedly added, smiling nervously. “There's still one man who's yet to meet the Lady's justice for the Red Wedding. The Kingslayer. We know you've captured the Westerlands and Cersei with it. So, the Lady just wants to ask one thing of you. Give us Jaime Lannister.”

* * *

Jon raised a brow. “What would we...the Iron Throne...get for agreeing to such a deal? Your price is steep.”

“Once we've introduced him to the Lady and he swings for his crime, the Lady has vowed that the Brotherhood will support the crown in keeping peace in the region.” Harwin replied, clasping his hands together.

Such an arrangement would be nearly unheard of – ransoming a valuable prisoner such as the Kingslayer to a band of outlaws for execution? It was practically seceding the authority of the Crown to them in the matter of the man.

“What can a few dozen outlaws do to help us?” Jon mused aloud.

It was Lem who answered that question. “We're more then a few dozen, Your Grace. We've hundreds of members throughout the Riverlands, and we're prepared to help you with the rebuilding – after all, this place is a fucking shithole thanks in part to the Lannisters.

We know this land from top to bottom. Every hidey hole, every stash of supplies, every bandit den or outlaw's cavern. Our expertise will be yours; just think what an army of builders and craftsmen could do with that knowledge at their backs.”

The Riverlands had been devastated by war, Jon knew. It bordered all of the other regions of Westeros save Dorne – and so there had been a great deal of clashes between various factions squabbling for control of the Iron Throne. Even he and Aegon had fought against the Lannister forces all the way to the Crag in the west.

The Small Council had given its best estimates for reconstruction and repair of the region to be a decade, if not more. He would be lying if the offer was not tempting – if not for himself, for the people of the land so broken and brutalized.

* * *

“I...I need time to consider this. You are asking a lot of me.” he sighed after a pause.

Lem offered a nod. “We know, Your Grace. But I think you'll find the Lady's offer to be fair. After all, it was the Kingslayer what pushed Bran out of that window back in Winterfell.” he shrugged, looking to Stoneheart for direction.

“I know that,” Jon said, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “but he was to be tried before the Iron Throne along with Cersei.”

The Lady turned to walk away. Jon felt an uncanny sense of urgency in his gut as he stepped forward, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Wait. We need to talk. Not as King to Lady, but as...whatever I am to you to a mother.”

She turned around, glaring towards him with a sneer on her lips. Jon released his hold on her body – the cold and clammy feeling staining his hand even after – and closed his eyes, bracing himself to speak this freely. “You've been here, fighting in the Riverlands since the Red Wedding. After all this is said and done...whatever my decision on the Kingslayer, you should consider...going back home. To Winterfell.”

Stoneheart put a hand to her neck, growling out her reply. “Nothing...left..”

“Jon, you know there are no Stark children left.” Harwin offered, his voice a pleading tone. “Robb is gone, Arya hasn't been seen since they took Ned's head, Sansa has been missing since Joffrey's poisoning and Bran and Rickon were murdered by Theon Greyjoy.”

Jon shook his head. “That's not true. Rickon is alive and ruling Winterfell as Warden of the North. He also says Bran is alive and gone beyond the Wall. I have the Night's Watch sending out as many patrols as they can to find him.”

* * *

A sense of satisfaction crept over his face as he watched her eyes widen – the Lady appeared startled by what he was telling her. “Sansa....she lives, as well. I...” he shuffled uncomfortably, bracing himself for what was to come. “...she and I are wed. She rules as Queen of Westeros now -”

Jon felt her hand around his throat, the nails digging into his skin as she hissed at him. His escort quickly drew their blades and pointed them in unison towards her. “Let him go!” shouted Grenn, “put His Grace down or you die!”

Her hand relaxed sharply as chaos unfolded around them. Brotherhood members had drawn their own weapons and were rushing to the Lady's side. Jon coughed, wiping his neck of the flecks of blood from her sharp talons. “Stop! All of you!” he shouted, raising his hands.

Stoneheart had continued to stare at him, her face warping into another hateful glare.

“It's not what you may think! We needed a way to unify the North with the Iron Throne. Sansa proposed the idea just as much as my brother Aegon did. We were able to rescue her from Petyr Baelish – he's awaiting his own execution in the Eyrie – and she no longer is under the thrall of any man. She and I rule as equals. She has a seat on the Small Council.” Jon pleaded, staring back into the yellow orbs.

Her eyes once again gleamed as she seemed to relax, waving off her armed comrades. Jon took this as a sign to continue. “Rickon hasn't had a mother in years. He barely remembers you – but he wants to. Go to Winterfell and be a mother to him. Sansa – she misses you with all of her heart. So much so that it aches for me to see how it hurts to talk about you.”

The Lady turned her head sharply to one side and Jon noticed her hands were starting to tremble. “I know how good of a mother you can be to your children. I never experienced it – but I see how much they love you.” he pleaded. “Go to them.”

A pause in the conversation took hold as Harwin rushed to her side, and Jon heard the wheezing gasps as she spoke to him. He offered her a sad smile as he shook his head towards Jon. “The Lady...she can't. That part of her life, she left behind after they took Robb from her. And look at her, Jon. She was three days in the Trident when we found her – no one will accept her as she is now.”

“They won't care. Rickon will be happy to see his mother again. So will Sansa.” Jon replied, looking between the two. “Also, you should know – I have men combing the Twins trying to find Robb's remains. Once we have his...his bones, I will have them sent to Winterfell to be buried in the crypts. Where the Kings of Winter belong.”

He swore that for a moment, a sad smile crept onto her face before vanishing. She gestured to her cave and Lem rushed off, heading inside. Jon raised a brow as the scene unfolded. It only took a moment for the man to return, carrying a bronze circlet, surrounded with nine black spikes. _A crown_ , Jon realized.

Lem passed it to the Lady, who thrust it into Jon's hands roughly. “Belonged...to...Robb.” she wheezed at him, turning away almost at once.

“That was Robb's crown.” Harwin added as Jon cradled the relic in his arms. “The Lady says...that when you bury him, he should have his crown as befit a King.”

* * *

“Sansa's going to be a mother, soon...” Jon added, his voice growing hoarse. Here he was, pleading for a woman who never once treated him as a son or anything remotely close to a person worthy of respect to return home and be the mother he knew her to be...to her trueborn children. “she could use...use your help in all of this. Please, Lady Catelyn.”

Stoneheart shook her head once more, wheezing out a response. Harwin nodded sadly. “The Lady...she says that the past is dead. It would be too painful for her to open those wounds again. She asks...she asks you to do the same. Speak to no one of who she is. Not Rickon, not Sansa...none of them.”

Jon couldn't believe what he was hearing. “But, these are your children -”

He was interrupted as she turned about, striding back to her previous spot directly in front of him. She placed a hand at her throat and wheezed to him. “Not...any more. Catelyn...Stark...dead. Let her....lie...as she is...Snow...Please.” she grasped his arm tightly, her talons digging into his flesh again. “Let them...live in peace.”

“We'll need to know within a week of your decision.” Lem had added as she stepped backward. “when you're ready to choose, meet us as Oldstones when the sun is high in the sky. Someone'll see you and yours, rest assured.”

Turning to his escort he nodded to the path back towards the caravan. “Let's start our way back.”

“Farewell...Jon Snow.” she croaked, bringing a hand to wave at him.

Jon nodded as he left, cradling the crown she had given him tightly, his thoughts and feelings gripped with sorrow. _Forgive me, Sansa._

* * *

 

 


	14. Find Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa visits Cersei Lannister, now a hostage at the Red Keep.

To look upon Cersei Lannister as she was now, one would not be able to believe that she was once considered the most desirable woman in the Seven Kingdoms. Gone were the days of her youthful beauty and radiance, her cunning and determination being the envy of every woman in the land.

As she was, the former Queen had gained weight, her face now looking ever more swollen from her constant imbibing of alcohol. Her hair was thin and uncut, and the cunning in her eyes that Sansa had always come to know was gone, replaced instead by a simmering rage that she was easily able to identify.

“You've won, little dove.” she had said, downing another glass as she glared towards the new Queen. Sansa had come to visit her while Jon was away in the Riverlands – she wanted to get the full measure of the woman who had been her tormentor and captor. She wore her best queenly regalia; a dress coloured blue and grey, representing both Tully and Stark.

The sight of her made Sansa almost pity the woman – a twinge of sympathy for her previous situation as a hostage came to mind. But she was the one who had allowed Joffrey to run wild and roughshod over the Starks as a whole – her lord father, lady mother and brother – and so the feelings quickly evaporated. “I did not come here to gloat.” she said, her voice simple and assuring.

* * *

Cersei barked back a laugh. “No? Then why, hm? Come to inform me of the day you'll take my head off? Here to ask me to confess my sins? I already did that with those Faith Militant zealots – and look at what happened to them.”

Sansa shook her head. “You will be tried before the Iron Throne upon the King's return. I came here not as your Queen but as a woman.”

“I can see you're fat and on your way to birthing a healthy babe for King Jon, hm?” she sighed, refilling her goblet. “I told you already, my little dove – love only your children. Now you'll have a chance to see what I did.”

She ran her hands over the bump in an effort to almost cradle her unborn child. A soft smile came over her lips in the process. “After the beatings Joff gave me, Your Grace -” she nearly spat the words out, “-I know best how to love my children.”

Rising from her seat Cersei went to the window of her chamber. She stared ruefully out onto the Blackwater, watching the various ships gliding by. “You think you do, Sansa. As I said, though; you will see it's not always easy to love them.”

Sansa looked down to her stomach. She and Jon had always wondered what kind of child their son or daughter would be – and she vowed that no matter who they were, any blood of her body would never become as deranged or cruel as Joff – or Cersei, for that matter.

Turning to face her, Cersei offered a lopsided grin. “I can see the crown you wear sits pretty on your little head. How does it feel, to have that taste of power as you do? Your lord husband makes you think you are important, powerful even – but we both know the truth. Woman to woman? We are little more then breeders.”

“That's where you are wrong.” she replied, strolling to one of the bookshelves and idly running her hands along the tomes. “I have a seat on the Small Council – by royal decree. I sign decrees in my name when the King is absent. Jon has given me real power. He may be my husband, but we sit as equals.”

It was the first time in history that a King had appointed his wife to be a member of the Small Council – invested with the same powers as any of the Masters who sat upon it. Jon's decree had produced an uproar in Westerosi society, and many conservative nobles were outraged by his decision. Yet many others – particularly those daughters of said nobles – were inspired by this change, as radical as it was.

Jon had once told her that his experiences with Ygritte and Val of the Free Folk had shown him that women were just as good rulers, fighters and leaders as men could be. And the world needed strong leaders of whatever gender for the fight to come.

Cersei stumbled over to where she stood, taking hold of her shoulder roughly. Sansa was tempted to swat her away, to back up – but she felt a lack of fear around the pitiful creature the woman had become. “How long do you think that will last, my little sweet dove?” she whispered, her words slurring in the process. “When you've popped a son from your cunt he will cast you aside as Robert did to me.”

* * *

“You're wrong.” Sansa retorted, gritting her teeth together as she tried to suppress the growing heat boiling under her skin. _She's trying to anger me_ – it was obvious that was Cersei's goal. Even now, in the eventual face of certain death she kept up her facade. Even now, after all she had done to bring chaos to King's Landing she stood defiant and mocking.

“Am I?” Cersei laughed, brushing a hand along Sansa's cheek. “I told you once that your cunt is your most powerful weapon. I stand by it – but because you have that and not a cock men do not take you seriously. They never did or had me.” she grumbled, collapsing back into her chair with a sigh.

Sansa offered a narrow smile. “Your cunt did not help when the Warrior's Sons and Poor Fellows reformed the Faith Militant, Your Grace. Which they did based upon your encouragement, as we now know.”

The Faith Militant was still a threat to the people of King's Landing – even with Jon having stormed the Sept of Baelor and freed all of the hostages they had taken – yet the true architect of their rise to power was the former queen herself. Many of those who had once served the Lannisters had flocked to the side of House Targaryen when defeat loomed.

Cersei abruptly turned her back and returned to her chair. “We shall see soon enough, my little dove.”

Slowly she advanced towards the door, turning her head back to stare at the queen with a mixture of pity and revulsion. “Have you nothing else to say in your defence?” she asked, raising a slender brow. Sansa realized that she was trying to find something – indeed, anything – redeemable about the woman, and yet could do no such thing.

“We will find out, little dove.” Cersei grumbled, downing another glass of wine.

* * *

 

 


	15. Refusal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon speaks with a former ally and gets into a confrontation with Aegon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in this asoiaf canon stannis hasn't burned Shireen, just an fyi - she and Selyse are both in king's landing with him. hope i did the rigid and prickly man some justice
> 
> next few stories will be jon's past before he became said king

From the comfort of his study Jon sighed, perusing some of the reports and orders that had come across the Throne while he was away in the Riverlands. Most of it was petty nonsense – squabbles between families, crop reports, and the like – and so he shoved the papers off to the side, stuffing them away between the folders he had set aside.

Sansa was meeting with the grand maester for her monthly examinations – Ebrose wanted to ensure the health of both mother and child was paramount, and Jon had elected to give her the privacy she needed for those meetings. They had spent some time together since his return – mostly a quiet supper and a walk through the godswood. Simple things that made both of them smile.

Jon was troubled. The meeting with Lady Stoneheart weighed heavily on his mind. He had mulled over the offer from the Brotherhood for days before riding for Oldstones – where he informed Lem that he had agreed to the trade. The life of the Kingslayer, a man who was for all intents and purposes a pariah among everyone; even now his own people was not worth allowing the entirety of the Riverlands continue to suffer without help.

Like it or not, House Targaryen needed the brotherhood and it's knowledge.

“Sire? We've brought him as you commanded.” came a voice from the door. Jon grasped his crown and replaced it on his head as he stood.

* * *

 

“Send him in.” he replied. The doors opened with a flourish and in marched Stannis Baratheon. He was clad in a simple tunic and pants, the colors of his house – that of black and yellow. The burning stag of his own army was embroidered in the centre of his chest. His appearance had changed little since he had been taken as a hostage – and he still wore the same iron gaze that he did while at the Wall.

“Lord Stannis.” Jon nodded, gesturing him to a seat.

Stannis took a few steps toward a chair before pausing. “Lord Snow. I would prefer to stand.” he said gruffly.

Jon nodded. “I take it you haven't considered my offer further?” He had pleaded with the man – one who he respected and admired greatly – to bend the knee and acknowledge his rule of the Seven Kingdoms. In exchange he would be allowed to assume the position of Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands.

“You know I cannot.” Stannis shook his head. “The Iron Throne is mine by right. Robert was the last true king – Joffrey, Tommen, even you have no real claim.”

Jon sighed. “But I am of House Targaryen -”

“- and they were defeated during Robert's Rebellion. By right of conquest my brother Robert sat the Throne, and after him I shall.” he stated firmly. “You know my position very well, Lord Snow. It has not changed since our last meeting.”

After Jon's parentage had become known – and he had assumed command of all Targaryen forces – Aegon and Daenerys had defeated Stannis's army at the Battle of Darry after a bloody six week siege of the abandoned castle. He had spent the last of that time in captivity – before his wife and daughter were sent from the North to join him.

Jon frowned, tapping his fingers on the desk. “I am trying to save your life, Lord Stannis. My brother Aegon wants you dead. Many of the men on the Small Council want you dead. They claim you are a great threat to the realm and the stability of it. I have fought with them since we have come here that you are not.”

“You need not bargain for my life.” he replied, his eyes glaring to Jon. “Do your duty. Execute me – I am clearly a threat to your alleged claim. Because I will not recognize you or your reign – as is my purview as the rightful King.”

Growling, Jon smashed his hand into the desk, sending wood splintering into his palm. Ignoring the pain he turned on his heel, stomping over to the window. “Your daughter grows up without a father. Your wife...well, she and you have never truly seen eye to eye. But is that truly what you want, Lord Stannis? Do you want this to be your legacy, truly?”

Stannis remained unmoved. “I am not concerned with my legacy. Shireen is healthy and will someday wed a son of a high lord. One does not seek anything, Lord Snow – as you well know of your own circumstances. But one acts as per their claim.”

Pausing, the man nodded towards Jon. “I have seen you in battle. I have seen you fight, and lead. You possess talents that few men do. And with those talents you have taken the Iron Throne. Your resolve and command is to be applauded. However, my answer does not change. Do your duty. The others of your blood were not afraid of spilling it.”

Jon shook his head, anger starting to bubble beneath the surface. “My blood is of the North. Now and always.” he sighed, inhaling deep from the open window.

“You may deny it, Lord Snow. But your blood is of the dragon.” Stannis replied, folding his hands over his chest. “To deny who you are – even if the blood is not favorable to you – is as foolish as embracing a heritage that is not your own.”

* * *

 

The sudden sound of footsteps brought silence to the two men. Aegon entered the room after a few moments, stopping at the threshold of the door nearest to Stannis. “Jon, there you are. I wanted to ask about -”

He paused as his eyes caught the Baratheon lord's own, stoic glare. “...Lord Stannis.” he grumbled, offering the barest hint of a nod to which Stannis returned it just as bare.

“What is it, Aegon?” Jon turned to face his brother.

But Aegon's attention was drawn solely to his visitor. He approached Stannis, a hateful glare evident in his eyes. “And why does the King treat with the likes of you, I wonder?” he asked, his tone icy and cold.

“Your King is still offering me a chance to bend the knee. A chance I have refused.” Stannis answered, eyes darting to Jon. “I cannot and will not relinquish my claim to the Iron Throne.”

Aegon scoffed. “You're an idiot! You have no army, Stannis! House Targaryen is in control of each of the Seven Kingdoms. Aside from Euron Greyjoy and the Iron Islands, we have no real opposition here in Westeros.”

“Even still.” Stannis shrugged gently. “After Robert, I am the rightful heir.”

Turning his head sharply towards Jon, Aegon growled. “He mocks you. He mocks us, and our family. Those that bled to get us here!” he exclaimed, hands balling up in anger. “Take his head and be done with it!”

“Aegon.” Jon said, his voice soft and pleading. “Please.”

“Please what, Jon? I won't allow this pretender to sully the sacrifices of our cause!” he grumbled.

* * *

His anger surged despite his attempts to control it. Jon sneered, punching his fist into a nearby bookshelf. “Then perhaps you should not have made ME your ruler, Aegon! I was perfectly content to remain in the North and help my family rule. But no, you had to demand I come south or you would, how did you put it? 'set the north on fire'? But I am your King now, despite what I have wanted – and you WILL be silent!”

A tense pause filled the air as both men stared at one another, the anger evident in their eyes. Aegon's face flushed red as he turned about, heading for the door.

“You will escort Lord Stannis back to his chambers.” Jon ordered harshly. His hands trembled with rage and regret – he did not wish to anger his brother, yet the man was almost single-minded in his desire for vengeance against all those who had supposedly wronged their family.

 _How could I give him that justice?_ The one who had killed his mother and sister was dead, the skull kept as a trophy in the palace at Sunspear. Tywin Lannister was dead as well – slain by his own son's hand. Jon could do nothing to placate Aegon's feelings; only time would do that for him.

Returning to his seat as the room emptied he let out a sigh, laying his head in his arms on the table and drifting off to sleep, ignoring the throbbing pains in his hands from where he had impacted the wood. All he wanted to do was rest.

* * *

 

 


	16. With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's kingdom deals with a new threat. Sansa sits the Iron Throne for a day.

Sansa had always felt strange, sitting in Aegon's throne. Yet each time she sat upon the twisted mass of steel blades a feeling of power – true, secure power – flushed through her head. Still, it was not the kind of power that a person such as Cersei craves, but a security; a sense of peace and control of her own life.

Jon had always been accommodating to her – when she mentioned her desire to be more then a trophy marriage he had happily agreed – and decreed that Sansa be allowed to sit the Iron Throne when the King was otherwise indisposed. Thus, she was able to enact her own justice through the realm; be it mediating disputes between squabbling lords or settling land claims.

Both of them had expressed their longing for home. Jon had never wanted to become King – the very idea was horrifying to him – and even now that he sat the throne she could tell he still was not fully confident in himself. Sansa had spent so much time in the Eyrie that she had forgotten herself; being the bastard daughter of the Lord Protector for so long was an exhausting experience.

Her body shuddered as she thought of Petyr Baelish; he'd been more then happy to 'teach' her how to please her future husbands as though she were a common whore. A hand went to her stomach, the sensation of feeling her child within bringing a calming smile to her face. Rickon and the northern delegates had departed a few weeks prior, heading for Winterfell.

The young Warden had pleaded with both of them to return with him – yet as much as Sansa was tempted she knew that her place was here. She had despised King's Landing; it was a place of painful memories for her. But now, she was in control – and was the player, not the victim in those memories.

“So it is decreed.” she echoed from the Throne, offering a bow to the stewards standing before her; they had requested that the infant children from Houses Stokeworth and Hayford be married so as to join the two fledgling Crownlands families. And so she had given her blessing, knowing that a union of such powers would benefit both the families and the crown in general.

* * *

Sansa knew that the ladies of the court watched her enviously from their place in the gallery – but she did not care. _Let them watch,_ she smiled. _I have earned my place here._ As the two stewards withdrew from the chamber she rose, offering a gentle bow to the assembled lords and commoners.

As she worked her way to her private chambers a servant approached, rushing rapidly forward to her. “Queen Sansa!” he exclaimed, panting from exhaustion. “Lord Royce's called an emergency meeting of the Small Council. Says its urgent that you attend.”

A map of the western coast of Westeros was laid out on the table as Sansa entered, making her way to her seat next to Jon's throne. The assembled members of the council – Randyll Tarly, Master of War, Yohn Royce, Master of Laws and Paxter Redwyne, Master of Ships – were deep in discussion.

“My lords,” she said, sitting down gently as possible. “What is happening?”

It was Lord Royce who replied, standing from the table and bowing to her. “My Queen, I apologize for the urgent summons – but we have received an urgent raven from Crakehall; the Iron Fleet has begun moving up the westerlands.”

The ironmen and their forces were a constant threat; Sansa nodded, staring towards the map. Markers painted with the kraken of Greyjoy littered the coastline near Castle Crakehall, along with lion and dragon markers. “What is the strength of their forces?” she asked, tapping the arm of her seat.

“Several hundred longships.” Lord Redwyne answered, nodding gravely and tapping at the markers. “Their raiders are threatening to capture Old Oak and Crakehall, Your Grace.”

 _This has to be dealt with._ “Has the King been -”

* * *

“My lords!” Jon entered the room, throwing the doors open and walking brusquely to his throne. He sat down, squeezing Sansa's hand as he did so. “I understand that the ironmen have made their move.” His expression was one of concern, his brows furrowed.

Sansa tapped the map. “You know about this incursion then?”

Jon nodded, squeezing her hand tighter. “I knew they would move – likely on the Westerlands – but not where. But, now we know.” he smiled, nodding towards the men. “and we can act, firmly and quickly in our response.”

Randyll Tarly smirked. “It was as you predicted, Your Grace. Give me leave to assemble the levies from the Reach – Redwyne and I can have a fleet ready within two days.” he offered, sweeping some of the kraken markers away.

“Lord Crakehall has mustered his levies, but the western forces are not as strong as they were.” Royce said, pointing towards Casterly Rock. “We've sent a raven to Lord Tyrion but my point still stands, Your Grace.”

A calm silence descended over the table. “Muster the levies, Lord Tarly.” Jon commanded. “I will send Aegon with your fleet to drive the ironmen away from Old Oak. I know he's itching for battle and glory.”

“That'll make him happy, Your Grace.” Tarly nodded. “We'll throw the scum back to Old Wyk in no time.”

* * *

Sansa turned to Jon as the men filed from the room. “You're staying?” she asked. “I...I know you mentioned you wanted to lead the fight against the ironmen yourself but...”

He stroked her hand gently, offering a gentle kiss to her cheek. “...but that was before you got with child. Now, my place is here. With you.”

* * *

 

 


	17. Iron Bargain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Daenerys plot to resolve the ironborn crisis.

Sleep had continued to elude Jon as it often did. Most of the times he would try and rest his dreams would be a confused and troubled jumble of emotions, pictures and words – all of a negative variety. He felt cold all of the time, and would often awake in a cold sweat were he able to get any sleep to begin with.

So it was that he stood on the balcony of the Red Keep, overlooking King's Landing proper. Sansa slumbered in their room within and so not to disturb her, he kept the doors tightly closed. As he so often did Jon would sit, in the silence of the early morning and allow himself a moment of peace – moments of which were growing rarer by the day.

Slouching into his chair he sighed, running a hand through his tangled hair. The news of the ironmen had set him to anxieties not felt since the end of the war – and now with Aegon off to defeat them, he had to worry about ensuring a proper response. This Euron Greyjoy was a dangerous and unpredictable man, and he could not allow such an individual to despoil his kingdom.

The silence reminded him of home. Jon smiled, his mind wandering back to the day he had set foot inside of a free Winterfell; with the Boltons defeated the North was finally united. The Starks had sworn fealty to the Iron Throne and Rickon was always happy to lend aid to Jon whenever he needed it.

Right now, Jon needed to be there. In Winterfell, helping the North prepare for the coming of the Others. The Wall was being reinforced slowly but surely – yet it was still not enough. He felt as a prisoner would, stuck inside of a gilded cage. Worse yet, he had thrown Sansa into the same situation by wedding and bedding her.

Reaching down to the small table at his side, Jon read over the response from Dragonstone once more. Thankfully Daenerys had agreed to travel to the capital swiftly, bringing the man that Jon needed her to bring. If they could resolve the ironborn crisis now he could move as many of the soldiers of Westeros as possible to the North – where they would be able to do the most good.

Rising from his seat Jon went back inside, resolving to see this through as quickly as possible.

* * *

“Your name?” Jon asked, raising a brow towards Daenerys and her guest. The throne room was basically deserted – save for the two standing before him and his Kingsguard – so his voice echoed across the hall.

The man that stood by the side of his aunt was large and powerfully built, as though a bull on two legs. He brushed his long and greying hair back from the front of his eyes and offered a slight bow. “Victarion Greyjoy, son of Quellon – Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet.” he drawled, looking about impressively.

“This is the man who rendered me aid, Jon.” Daenerys nodded, gesturing towards him. “his fleet was able to help lift the siege in Meereen – and he has sworn himself to our service ever since.”

Jon nodded. “And you feel he would be a good replacement for this Euron?” He barely trusted the ironborn at the best of times – with Euron and his fleet raiding into Westeros proper, not to mention the many crimes of Theon and his men – and was wary of writing her at all.

Victarion shrugged. “What you mainlanders think of me is unimportant. But what I know is that Euron is not worthy to sit the Seastone Chair.” He stepped forward, offering an idle smirk towards Jon as he inched closer to the throne, the Kingsguard quickly drawing their blades and stepping to intercept him.

“If you have a point to make, Lord Captain – I suggest you make it.” Jon commanded, gripping one of the armrests – in the process, sending a lash of pain up his arm as blood trickled down his hand. He found himself growing irate at the man's cavalier attitude.

The ironman laughed, stepping back from the throne with his hands raised. “I will speak plain to you, then. You have a choice, dragon-king; Euron does not simply plunder and loot as ironmen are want to do. He desires your throne. A throne I understand your family just regained.”

Pausing, he turned his head to Daenerys. “I aided her against the enemies of Meereen with what remained of my fleet. I am willing to aid you against my brother now. For Euron may only possess a fraction of your supposed strength – but he has the power of magic on his side.”

Jon rubbed his hand, stemming the blood as he did so. “We know about the dragon horn you have. But what else does Euron command that we do not know about?”

“I don't know. If I did I would not need you mainlanders, would I?” he laughed again, offering another idle shrug. “You can have a king who is reckless, wildly cruel and hungry for the world – or a King who is content to lead his people in the Old Way. The choice, I think, is yours.”

Sighing, Jon rose from his throne and stepped down, staring hard at the man. He could not bargain with a creature such as this – the man would continue reaving, raping and plundering as he saw fit. No amount of deals or fealty would change that; yet he spoke the truth. As it stood the Iron Fleet was a threat to Westeros and his family's claim to the throne.

 _I won't be known as the King who gained and lost the throne in one lifetime._ “I agree. We will support your claim as King of the Iron Islands – and you will assist us in defeating Euron.”

“That wasn't too hard, was it?” Victarion said, turning to the door. “I will muster my ships and head for the Mander. I would send a bird so your men know who is on their side.”

* * *

As the man's footsteps faded from the room Jon turned to Daenerys. “This is the best option? Him?” he asked, shaking his head sadly. “We trade one insane madman for an aggressive madman.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, patting gently. “I know it may look bad, but Victarion is a man we know how to respond to. This Euron? He is wild, unpredictable. We have to make a choice for the good of the realm – and I feel that the Lord Captain is the only reasonable option we have.”

“Is there no one else?” Jon echoed, slumping down into the throne. “No one with a better standing then the refuse you brought me?”

His aunt shook her head. “No – he mentioned all other candidates at the Kingsmoot are supporters of Euron. Erik Ironmaker, Gylbert Farwynd, Dunstan Drumm. All of them would be unwilling to be...encouraged in such a manner. Theon Greyjoy, well – we know where he is.”

Jon scowled. “I would rather burn the Iron Islands to the ground with your dragons then sit that scum on its throne. You know how I feel about him.”

“...but his sister, Victarion says – she made a claim of her own. Spoke rather laggardly as an ironborn, he said. She talked of 'stupid promises'; offers of land, victory as settlers and...peace.” Daenerys raised a slender brow. “but Asha Greyjoy is dead. Pity we hadn't -”

Jon shot up, eyes widened in surprise. “She's not dead. She was with Stannis's host in the North when we took Winterfell. She's still in the dungeons there awaiting trial for her crimes. Yet – given what we have before us, she sounds like the only other choice.”

“We've promised Victarion our support, nephew.” she reminded him, smiling sadly.

Shaking his head, Jon allowed a slow smile to form on his lips. “That we have. But he needs not be our only choice.”

“What are you proposing, Jon?”

Jon chuckled, exhaling sharply. “Send a raven to Winterfell. Ask Rickon to send Asha south – I want to meet with her. If she proves more reasonable then her 'dear' uncle – well, the Iron Islands will have to get used to the idea of their first Queen.”

* * *

 

 

 


	18. Ancient GIft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys gives Jon a relic of the ancient past.

The weighted crown felt as cold as it looked in his hands. Jon continued to stare at it, his face ruffled in disbelief. “You...you're certain of this? No tricks?” he asked, looking up to Daenerys, who sat smiling at him from across the desk.

“No tricks, Jon. Apparently Aegon had it kept in the vaults of Dragonstone. I found it there by accident – yet I knew it would be best served being returned to our King himself.” she said, looking to the relic with an impressed nod.

The ancient crown of the Kings of Winter – finally found. It had vanished with Torrhen Stark's submission to Aegon the Conqueror three hundred years ago. Before then, it had sat upon the heads of the Stark kings going back to the Long Night eight thousand years prior. Jon was almost in awe as he set it down, afraid to pick it back up.

The circlet was rather plain for a crown. It reminded him of the one Lady Stoneheart had given him to bury with Robb – except this one was much older and showed signs of its age. The bronze circlet held marks of fading rust upon the swords, and the wolf in the centre had been chipped and scratched at repeatedly.

Jon looked back up to his aunt, his mouth still hanging open. He found the words were lost in his throat as he tried to speak. “You...don't know how much this means to me, Daenerys. I...this crown has seen eight thousand years, or so they say. It is said Brandon the Builder himself wore this.” he exhaled, bringing a hand up to his mouth.

* * *

For her part Daenerys offered a shrug. “I figured you could put it to better use then I. I know a certain boy in Winterfell would enjoy seeing this..”

They shared a laugh; Rickon would indeed enjoy seeing such a relic. Daenerys had enjoyed the boy's visits, and he had enjoyed hearing all of the wonderful stories she had to tell about her dragons and their journey from Essos. The happy memories that Jon was building with his family again gave him a sort of solace – knowing the last few years had not been battles and struggles constant for nothing.

“Just don't tell Aegon what you've done.” she finished, winking to him. “He would be furious at such a thing!”

Jon scoffed, his tone mocking. “What I have done? Dear aunt, you were the one to find the crown. It is more like what you have done.”

Rising to her feet Daenerys offered a tilt of her head. “I should see myself out, dear nephew. You have your work cut out for you – what, with the ironmen and their Seastone Chair to sort out.”

_That much was true, at least._

Jon's plan was a risky one – but it would pay off for the betterment of Westeros should it succeed. He knew the ironborn were not a peaceful people; yet a ruler was needed to guarantee a degree of peace for the rest of the Seven Kingdoms he was now sovereign over. “Asha can't have come as far as she has without skill, Daenerys. You'll see.” he assured her, taking her hand and kissing it.

* * *

Within moments she was gone, leaving him alone in the study. He returned his gaze to the ancient crown – daring to trace a finger along the bronzed circlet once more. Eight thousand years of history right in front of his eyes. “Imagine what you've seen,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “the coming of House Stark, the Long Night – the rise and fall of Winterfell.”

Jon bit down on his lip as he thought of the Long Night – he should be there on the Wall by now, leading the united armies of Westeros against the Others. Instead, he found himself stuck in the quagmire of politicking and squabbling and raiding. “I made a mistake taking this damn throne.” he mumbled, brushing his hand on the crown again. “I was happy being a Stark of Winterfell. Like you. But no – my destiny still lies here. So far from home.”

He had drawn up a plan for after the Others were defeated – if they ever were truly defeated. He would abdicate the throne to Aegon and return north, bringing Sansa and their child with him. There, Rickon would be more then happy to have them remain in the North to live their lives in peace.

But of course, the rest of the realm would never allow it. So here he was. He had sent ravens to the Wall, asking for updates on their preparations for battle. It would take time to hear from Tormund and Edd and Val and the others – so all he could do now was wait.

_Damn the ironmen, he thought. Let Aegon deal with them while I go North. It may come to that._

Rising to his feet Jon stared back at the crown once more, unable to keep his eyes off it. It was only that, a crown – a fragment of a lost history. But yet the power that it held over him made him feel a pride he had not in many an age. It brought back memories of a liberated Winterfell, and of reuniting with Rickon once more.

_I am Jon Snow. Not Targaryen – I can be nothing else but a son of the North._

* * *

 

 


	19. Night Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa talk about his continuing nightmares.

It was this time that he enjoyed, more so then any other. With the Red Keep still and quiet and all affairs of state having been settled it was the solitude of his night watching that made Jon's mind relax after a stressful day. The stars gently shone down, allowing a wonderful view of the twinkling sky.

“I am glad you let me see this, Jon. It's beautiful.” Sansa exclaimed, gasping in awe. He usually partook of this alone – but tonight he felt it was not polite to allow his wife to miss out on the beauty of the shining stars. In his own way, it did his heart good to see her smile – to be almost as giddy as her old self would have been.

She sat down next to him, their chairs having been pushed together on the balcony. “Is this what you do when you can't sleep? Every night?” she asked, looking to him with concern in her eyes. “or are you just saying this to get away from me?”

Jon snorted. “Now why would I do that?” he exclaimed as she let out another laugh at his expense. “It's not every night – thank the gods for that. But...when I have the dreams. When I can't....can't really focus on rest.”

He had been troubled by the visions – flashbacks, even – since his first night in the Red Keep. They were not so much nightmares as they were a glimpse into the events that shaped him. From his near-fatal attack at the Wall, to the reclamation of Winterfell to the reunion of Rickon. Those memories were happy ones; Jon did not mind when those were brought to the forefront of his dreams.

But it always shifted to more sullen events. The revelation of his parentage, the challenge sent by Aegon – the realization that he would not be able to return North as he now had a kingdom to rule. His sense of isolation and despair, of longing and the pain he still felt.

Sansa squeezed his hand tightly. “I wish we could find a solution.” She looked upon him with a mixture of sadness and pity. Behind those Tully blue eyes, Jon knew that she truly wanted to help him, to make things as easy as possible for the both of them – forced into a marriage for the sake of the realm.

* * *

Jon sighed, slouching into his chair. “Winterfell.” he whispered solemnly. “I want to go home. I...I want us to go home.” He felt the emotions begin to well up inside of him yet again; his eyes burned with the threatening tears of sadness.

He saw his father's smile. He saw Arya as they played together. The bonds of brotherhood he felt with Robb and Bran and Rickon; even the few run ins with Sansa that he had, as few as they were due to her aloof nature. “I want our child to grow up free, to be the man or woman they want to. Not forced to rule a kingdom alien and unknown.”

What hurt him most was Sansa. She had been away from the North for so long – and now she was back here, a place where she had experienced the horrors of the south. “I...I want you to go home. To see how Rickon is, to be able to be the woman you want to be.” he said, wiping at his eyes.

The gentle kiss upon his cheek startled him. Sansa ran a hand over his eyes, helping to wipe the tears away as they formed. “I am who I want to be. Littlefinger – he thought he had full control over me, but he never did. No one can...take away who I am. I am a Stark of Winterfell and a Targaryen of Dragonstone. I am the Queen of Westeros – and I am Sansa of House Stark.”

 _She's grown so much. We both have._ “I still...have to laugh.” Jon admitted, rubbing at his forehead. “how all of this...” he gestured around with his free hand, “would come to pass. I'd have laughed in the face of anyone who suggested it.”

Sansa let out a contented sigh. She stared at him, smiling as gently as ever. “We're fighters, Jon. You with a sword and I with my words, manners and charm. It's finally time for us to relax. To put down our weapons for a moment and see what the world has brought us.”

“Aye.” Jon replied, slipping a hand to caress her stomach. “and right now, it's our son or daughter. At least we can...can hope to leave them a better world then what we were given.”

Sansa rose to her feet, leaning over and kissing Jon again on the cheek. “I can say you already have, Jon.” she smiled, gesturing to the bed. “I should try to get a bit of rest. So should you, my lord.” she smirked, snickering to herself.

Jon rose to his feet and went inside, hoping that his mind would be merciful and grant him a few hours of rest.

* * *

 

 

 


	20. Answering the Challenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occurs in the past, when Jon came to the Stormlands to answer Aegon's challenge after his parentage was revealed.

The peninsula of Massey's Hook overlooked the churning waters near Storm's End, which loomed in the background through the fog. Even from here, atop this massive natural landmark Jon felt small – and vulnerable. His grip on Longclaw tightened rapidly as he watched the party approach, the red and black Targaryen colors flying proudly in the midday sun.

“Stay calm,” Grenn urged. His friend and former black brother had demanded that he accompany Jon on this journey, and right now he was grateful that he'd acquiesced and allowed it. “he'll try to make you afraid. Don't let 'him.”

But Jon was not afraid. Not of this party, not of its prince and not even of the fleet of ships that idled about the waters. He was afraid for the North – and what this man represented. This challenge was more a threat then any real demand for combat; come to face me or I will destroy Winterfell. Given the choices he faced with the truth behind his parentage known Jon had no choice but to do so.

The leathery looking man who approached the pair eyed Jon with barely hidden contempt. He wore a breastplate adorned with what he presumed was the sigil of the man's house – two griffons, one red and the other white. “So you're the pretender.” he barked, a sneer prevalent upon his face.

Jon ignored the jape. “I come as demanded.” he spat, looking behind the man to his party. “Now, where is your prince?”

The man studied Jon, his eyes seeming to bore into his head. As he did so Jon tried to study him; aside from the breastplate the man wore no armor, and had only one hand; the left hand was gone, a stump at the elbow in its place.

“I can see the fire in your eyes, boy.” he finally said after a tense moment of contemplation. Turning back towards his companions, the man nodded. “I'd recognize the look in his eye any day, Your Grace.”

With that the man retreated backwards, allowing a second figure to step up. Grenn fingered the hilt on his sword as the newcomer approached but Jon waved him down. “If they were going to kill us we'd be dead by now.”

Grenn nodded. “I don't like this. You know that.”

* * *

The white haired young man wore a sneer upon his lips, just as the elder man had. His armour was far more extravagant then his party; black and red plate, the dragon of House Targaryen embedded in the middle of his chest-piece. His eyes – a light purple – looked to both men. “So the gossip wasn't false, then.”

Jon wanted desperately to deny it; he was no dragon. He was a Stark of Winterfell – and he had spent all of his life trying to prove that fact on the Wall. He had left the Night's Watch to reclaim his home, for his family. “Evidently not.” he whispered, his voice low and melancholy.

“It seems my father spent more time with your mother then he did mine own.” the prince smirked, his expression one of mocking. “yet look at you. You don't have any of our features. Why should you appear now, just as I begin my reclamation of Westeros? This is what you want, then.”

“I already told you -” Jon began. The prince scoffed, waving him off.

“That you desire nothing but to protect the North, you are a Stark – and all of the other nonsense you said in your letters. Yes, I know that. And perhaps – just perhaps – I may believe you. Even if that were the case you are a threat to my cause.” he glared, shaking his head.

Jon rolled his eyes. “I don't want anything to do with your bloody cause. I don't know how this....this news came to be spread as it did, but I have no interest in anything of your family!”

“OUR family.” the prince hissed, his hands curling into fists.

“Rhaegar Targaryen was your father. Eddard Stark was mine.” Jon growled, the anger building in his heart. “I am no more a Targaryen as you are a Stark.”

* * *

The prince laughed. “You're right, Jon – he does have the fire of the dragon in him! Listen to his voice. I can almost feel the heat rolling off his body.” He offered a light shrug. “I suppose we could argue this all day long. But that is not why you are here.”

“I am here to defend the North. Your threats -” Jon began.

“- were not mere threats. They were promises.” the prince seethed. “The Reach has already rallied to me. As has Dorne. Within the year I will have defeated the Lannisters and claimed King's Landing. My aunt – excuse me, our aunt – has three large dragons at her back, and she is en-route to Westeros as we speak.”

He stopped himself with a sharp inhale. Another uncomfortable silence filled the air. “The terms, then. We fight, blades only. Whomever yields first is the loser. If I win, you will bend the knee and renounce all claims you have to the Iron Throne. Then we shall travel to Winterfell and you will proclaim fealty to House Targaryen in the name of House Stark.”

Jon trembled with anxiety.

“Should you triumph, I will bend the knee and proclaim you the one true King of Westeros. House Targaryen will kneel to you.” he finished, nodding once. “but I warn you – I want a true fight. Hold nothing back. If you are mocking me in any way I will not hesitate to follow through on my promise either way.”

Both men drew their blades. “I'm willing to renounce my interest in your throne now. Let us end this before it begins, please.” Jon pleaded, his face contorting with sadness. “The Others are coming, Prince Aegon. They are the true threat -”

“No excuses, Jon Snow.” Aegon replied as he dropped into a combat stance. “Now, let us see who of us is the true dragon.”

* * *

 

 


	21. The Battle of Darry - Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another one from Jon's past; this time he leads the Targaryen forces against the army of Stannis Baratheon - who refuses to yield his claim to the Iron Throne that Jon now seeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've tried to keep stannis's character in line with how he is in both books and show personality wise - hope you guys enjoy <3

The Baratheon force that held Castle Darry numbered some four and a half thousand, almost the same number that had accompanied Stannis when he began his march south. From the top of the hill nearest the Ruby Ford, Jon studied the scene before him; trenches were being dug around the perimeter, barricades had been constructed around the major approach points and scorpions and catapults were being built up all over the grounds. The flaming stag flag flew high over the ancient keep.

The pain in his heart was fierce. Jon had admired Stannis in his own way – the man was hard as iron and unflinching in his convictions that he was the rightful King – but he was also the only leader to give the Wall any kind of support. Many of the man's soldiers still manned its castles now, preparing for the coming of the Others.

A bitter taste bubbled in his mouth as Jon spat onto the ground. He did not want this, any of this; he would rather be at home in Winterfell helping to rebuild what had been taken from his family or at the Wall preparing for the Long Night. Instead he found himself here – a claimant for the Iron Throne, not even by his own choosing. Yet he still remembered when Aegon had yielded to him; there was no going back now.

The war council had decided a simple plan of attack; overwhelming force. Castle Darry was in a bad state as it stood; abandoned, sacked and abandoned again over the years. It would be relatively easy to draw the Baratheon forces out and into the open, even with their variety of defences being constructed.

“There is no need to parley with him, Your Grace.” That was from Lord Willas Tyrell, who had come to represent the Reach – he was lame in one leg, and thus could not fight; yet he led the Tyrell host all the same. “We know what kind of man Stannis Baratheon is – he will never accept your terms.”

Aegon nodded eagerly. “You said it yourself – he is unbending. The river lords we've rallied have told the same tales. Why they were more then happy to raise for us, I think.” he finished with a chuckle, eyes darting to Jon.

He knew that Aegon still resented him; even though Jon had offered many times to renounce the crown and return it to him, his brother had refused – he had won their trial, and by rights Jon was the rightful King of Westeros now. Should he flee, Jon would not risk the wrath of the dragons upon the North.

A sigh escaped his lips. “Even so. I served alongside the man at the Wall. To treat with him is what I owe him, at the least.”

“With all respect Your Grace, you owe him nothing.” Lord Anders Yronwood offered bluntly, his face creased into a frown. “Were your positions reversed he would grant you no such quarter or hesitation. He would swat you like a gnat.”

Jon nodded, tapping his fingers on the map. “I will make him one last offer – one I know he will not accept. But no man can say I did not attempt to be reasonable with him. Then we will do battle – and once he is defeated, we will take him alive.”

“Why?” Aegon blurted out, raising a brow. “He is worthless to us, brother. We hold both Dragonstone and Storm's End. Better to take his head and be done with it.”

Jon sighed, shaking his head. “Worthless to you, Aegon. But as you are frequent to remind me – I am not like you.” he shot back, glaring ruefully towards him. _You forced me into this mess. So now you live with my choices._

* * *

After the council concluded and the tent emptied, Jon found himself alone with his half-brother. Aegon stared at him, remaining silent as he seemed contemplative. Rolling his eyes Jon was the one to break the silence. “Say what you are going to say.”

“You're too sentimental with Stannis Baratheon. Need I remind you he was part of the Usurper's family?” Aegon spat, slamming a fist into the table. “I know it means nothing to you but it was the Baratheons who had my sister and mother killed.”

“Means nothing to me, eh?” Jon fired back as he felt the anger swelling within once more. “Stannis was the only one to come to our aid against the Free Folk! Without him I would likely be dead – which, actually would be to your advantage.”

Aegon stood up, pointing to Jon angrily. “You sit where I should! You, someone who does not even acknowledge yourself as a Targaryen! You, who somehow now commands me. I have spent MY LIFE preparing to rule, and you come along and take my place just as simple as that. Our father's northern romp with your mother -”

Jon heard no more as he launched himself out of the chair, punching Aegon in the face with all of his might. He would hear no mockery or insults about his mother – not even in the company of family, for all the family Aegon was.

“You will NOT speak of my mother in such a way. Need I remind you that YOU were the one who challenged me. I tried many a time to give you back the fucking crown but you were the one who kept saying no. Now I am here, and you still brood about your lost right.” Jon snarled.

Wiping the blood from his mouth Aegon merely laughed as he rose from the ground. “Don't you understand, fool? Were I to accept your offer I would be seen as weak. I would lose the support of most of our banner-men. What is more, there would be those who would still want to see you crowned over me – especially now given your popularity.” he spat, his saliva tinted red.

“I – I did not mean to speak ill of your family, Jon.” he sighed, shaking his head as he went for the exit.

Jon stopped him, advancing close enough to grab his shoulder. “We are in this together now, Aegon. As brothers – like it or not.” he chuckled, embracing him in a tight hug.

Aegon nodded, hesitating before he returned the embrace.

 _It will take time,_ Jon thought as he stood alone in the tent. _One day you will see me as a brother – I hope._

* * *

Jon had arranged to meet Stannis for the parley on the outskirts of Castle Darry's outer defenses. He only took a token guard with him; he did not want to give the impression of fear to his opponent first of all, but secondly he would rather talk to the man on equal footing. It was not long after his arrival at the meeting place that Stannis and his escort rode up.

The lord of Dragonstone looked haggard, his appearance drastically contrasting with that of how he appeared when he first left the North after the Winterfell campaign. Jon remembered him on the day he rode through the Neck – proud, confident and sitting tall astride a fresh horse, his armor and crown polished thoroughly.

Now he did not appear to be the same man; his hair was messy and chaotic, his pose slouched and weary. His armor bore many dents, knocks and other damage from the battles he had endured in the river-lands. A sling was wrapped about his left arm, likely where he had taken a wound. But the one thing that had not changed was clear – his eyes were still stern and full of determination.

“Lord Snow,” he greeted him with a nod of his head. “it is a startling irony to see you on this side of the battlefield, I must confess.”

Jon nodded. “You know why I've come, Lord Stannis.”

That prompted an idle shrug from the man, who winced in pain even as he did so. “Come to offer me terms, I expect. Terms you know I will not accept; that I yield my claim to the Iron Throne, submit to House Targaryen and so on.”

“Aegon does not even want me to treat with you.” Jon admitted. “he claims it to be a waste of time. I told him I respected you too much to ignore you.”

Stannis offered another nod. “From one battle commander to another, Lord Snow – we meet as equals despite the numbers advantage you may possess. Yet your brother speaks the truth of it; you do waste your army's time by attempting to bargain.”

 _Why can't you just admit defeat, damn you?_ “You were the only one who came to the Wall. You fought at my side against the wildlings – and against the Boltons. For that, I owe you a debt I can never repay. But now I am here, championing the cause of House Targaryen against the Lannisters. I cannot simply ignore a claimant to the throne.” he smiled sadly.

“You would be wroth to do so. I understand.” Stannis said, his tone neutral as always. “But even your parentage does not change the facts that the Iron Throne still belongs to me, by right. Robert threw down the dragons – and his children being born of incest means the chair passes to me. I respect your challenge but my answer remains the same – I will not yield.”

“My lord,” Jon sighed, “you have seen my numbers – you know that should we fight you will be defeated. There is not going to be another force to join you; many of the river-lords have already raised their banners to me. Those that have not remain neutral.”

Stannis turned his horse, preparing to ride back to his line. “Even still. It is not my nature to yield as you know.” For a brief moment Jon swore he saw a small and sad smile crease the man's face. “We shall meet on the morrow, Lord Snow. I wish you good luck in the wars to come.”

As the Baratheon party rode away Jon sighed to himself.

_And I wish you luck, my lord. I fear you will need it._

* * *

 

 


	22. The Battle of Darry - Part Two

The Battle of Darry – as it was known to the realm after the day was out – lasted some three hours. This was only due in large part to the ample trenches and barricades that Stannis Baratheon's forces had been able to erect around the half-ruined castle.

Even as Jon watched from a nearby hill – as much as he wanted to join the fighting he was expressly forbidden by his lords – he could not help but shake his head in sadness. As a part of the castle's outer wall exploded into a plume of smoke and dust – likely from a trebuchet hit – he watched as his footmen charged through the newly created gap, fighting against the few Baratheon troops to meet them.

The flaming stag still flew high over the keep, but this was the third hour of fighting and the enemy was already almost spent. The Targaryen forces had taken the field after only an hour, and it had taken another hour more to batter down the gates. The only thing left to do was to clean up; fighting against the holdouts that refused to surrender.

Already his soldiers were marching the men who had yielded – many of whom were ragged and half starved – away from the battle. Jon had given orders that any man who wished would be able to join his host, while those that did not would be free to return to their homes in peace. Only two houses from the Riverlands had raised their banners for Stannis – the Mallisters and the Vances – and he saw their heraldry among the captives.

“He really won't yield, will he?” Grenn whispered.

Turning his head Jon nodded. “You know him, Grenn. Did you ever think he the type to yield when he came to the Wall? Why would he now?” Yet in his heart Jon had hoped the man would see reason and surrender; there would be no need for any more death.

 _Such a thing is impossible_ , Jon thought. _He would rather rip out his own bowels._

“I want to be down there.” Jon protested aloud. Yet as their claimant to the Throne he was forbidden to fight; it was not possible, lest anything happen to him. “fighting at the side of our soldiers. Not here, watching like some kind of pigeon.”

A bark of laughter greeted his words. “You know you gave that up when you took charge here.” Grenn japed, shaking his shoulder in a gentle manner, “but come on, you should be used to that by now being Lord Commander and all.”

Even Jon smothered a grin.

* * *

A great crash caught his ears as he turned his head towards the castle. A great storm of soldiers bearing the Baratheon sigil had charged from the splintered gate and were racing to the east while Targaryen forces attempted to block them. Great Tyrell shields smashed down in front of the men while Dornish horses worked to herd them together.

Yet the force fought on, cutting their way through several lines of Tyrell shields as he watched. Great horns sounded from the camp as heralds waved their flags of command into the air; Jon watched as another charge of Dornishmen took the men in the rear, cutting through their lines as a knife through cheese.

Scattered cries could be heard over the din of battle. “STANNIS!” “DRAGONSTONE!” “FIGHT ON FOR THE KING!” the voices echoed around Jon, causing him to clutch at his leg tightly. His palms grew moist as the shrinking host tried to hack their way free even as their numbers were felled.

He watched as the flaming stag – once held high in the ranks of the Baratheon army – fell under the press of the Tyrell/Dornish force. The once-large escape attempt was now thwarted; it was obvious the remaining men had sought to fight their way free of the siege and retreat towards Seagard, most likely.

Would Stannis be among them? Jon could not tell. It was not like the man he knew to retreat; he seemed the kind to go down fighting with his army. Yet the circumstances for that army were grim – and perhaps a fighting retreat was the only thing he could even try. He hoped beyond reason that the man would throw down his sword and surrender – he had ordered Stannis Baratheon to be taken alive if at all possible.

 _I'll find out in a moment._ Jon watched as the small group of survivors were lead away, marching towards the camp as the Targaryen troops moved into the castle proper. Would be that Jon could cheer along with Aegon and the others as he watched the Baratheon standard be lowered from the walls of Darry for the last time, to be replaced by the three-headed dragon.

He could not, however; the same host he now watched as they were defeated was the same host that had helped to reclaim Winterfell from House Bolton and its allies.

It was Aegon who rushed his way to where Jon stood, his armor covered in blood and dirt. A predatory grin played on his lips. “The day is ours, brother.” he announced proudly, dropping to one knee with a moments hesitation. Jon waved a hand and he rose, the smile still on his face.

“Three hours seems a fast siege.” he said, raising a brow. “I know we outnumbered Lord Stannis but -”

Aegon shook his head. “At least a third of his army was sellswords. They turned tail and ran when our first wave hit the trenches. Mercenaries – you get what you pay for.”

Jon nodded. He knew that the enemy force was comprised of some sellword elements – but not as many as Aegon now named. “And Stannis? I watched a large number of soldiers try and break through our lines...”

“Nothing to be concerned with, dear brother.” Aegon replied with a chuckle. “twas Bar Emmon or one of those Stormlanders who swore to the Usurper leading the charge – he is now our hostage. Though, I have wont to be impressed – a boy of sixteen leading a breakout!”

That still did not ease his stomach. “And Stannis?” he repeated, his voice more firm.

Aegon rolled his eyes in reply. “Yes, and your precious Stannis. Did you ever doubt us? Faith in an army is what a King needs.”

“Thank you for your wise counsel, Lord Targaryen.” Jon stated icily, “now, have Lord Stannis brought to me. I wish to speak with him as per a king's prerogative.”

* * *

His hands were not bound, Jon noticed as Stannis was lead before him. Even so his body was still haggard and showed the marks of his constant battles since the war began. His hair was now matted with blood and grime, and his hands were wrought with both fresh and old blisters. Yet even now in this state – his army defeated or surrendered – he remained the same man Jon was used to.

“Lord Snow,” he began curtly before raising a brow. “Pardon – Lord Targaryen. I know that your brother Aegon legitimized you upon your ascension to leadership.”

Jon flinched, gritting his teeth together. He still disliked the name he had been given – while many men whispered their envy behind his back, even in the ranks of his own army – and longed for the days of simplicity that came with being Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell.

He had been able to forge a name for himself upon the Wall; both as a brother of the Watch and as Lord Commander. After that, he had only enhanced his prowess by helping to reclaim Winterfell for his family. But now – all of what he had built was shattered thanks to the truth about himself becoming public knowledge.

Stannis nodded slightly as he watched Jon's reaction. “Ah. You are still not comfortable with using the new royal name you have been adorned with. Here I thought it would make you happy – to be risen from bastardy to become the leader of a great house.”

His tone was neither mocking or contemptuous but Jon still felt angered none the less. What did he know about the situation? “I...trust you have not been harmed?” he asked, keeping his face neutral. He could not afford to lose control – not now.

“Your men were rather insistent upon delivering me here alive.” he replied, shrugging. “it does not matter in the end. Execute me and have it done. Even now in the swell of defeat I will not yield. My answer will never change as long as there is air to breathe and blood left in my body.”

“I knew that already, my lord.” Jon admitted, “but it does not change my position either. I will not kill you.” He had spent a great deal of time fighting beside this man – this hard, uncompromising and cold man. Jon still remembered the day the army battered down Winterfell's gates – and when Stannis had named Jon the acting Lord of Winterfell until one of his surviving siblings could be found.

It had not lasted long – but it was the greatest moment of his life. “Do your duty. You are a leader now – not merely of the Night's Watch but of a Great House. You see now the burdens thrust upon us.” Stannis replied, matter of factly.

* * *

By all accounts, he should. Jon was obligated to execute this man, this usurper – this contender for the throne that was by all rights his own. But that was Jon the King; Jon the northman, Jon the black brother – and Jon the Stark – could do no such thing, at least not as easily as the King could.

“When we have taken King's Landing I will determine your fate. I will also send for your wife and daughter from Eastwatch – as well as the Red Woman – once that is done so you may live in comfort with your family.” he said gently.

Stannis shook his head. “If you are attempting to play for sympathy -”

Jon waved a hand angrily towards him. “You know I am not doing any such thing! I respect you, My Lord – we fought together not long ago as we defeated Roose Bolton and his allies! You named me acting Lord of Winterfell, even though I would bend no oath to you. I want us to be allies again.”

Another hint of a smile crossed his face before fading abruptly as it appeared. “We cannot.” he said sadly, turning about to the camp. “things have changed too much between you and I. Now, be the leader you are and lead me to my fate.”

“Take Lord Stannis to the main camp. Give him a hot meal and a bath.” Jon ordered, turning around to face the smoking remains of the battlefield.

_This is only the first hard choice you must make, Lord Snow._

* * *

 

 


	23. Compromise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon strikes a deal. He tries to get a shade to become who they used to be - again.

Jon took the paper, reading over the message carefully. “When did this arrive?” he asked Lord Royce, who stood smirking at his side, “from what Aegon's last message had said -”

The Master of Laws shook his head. “...that the attack upon the Shields was just to begin. It has – and already ended, as you can see.” he said, shrugging. “It seems the ironmen pulled most of their strength from the Mander and are on their way back to Pyke.”

It made no sense. Why carry out an invasion only to turn tail at the first sign of trouble? Jon was perplexed. “I don't like this. The ironborn are not wont to turn tail and run. They battle to the death, as both of us already know.”

Aegon's force had overwhelmingly defeated the paltry defenses on the Shield Islands; all four had been reclaimed without much fight, with many prisoners taken among the ironborn – including the leaders of three of the four castles, having been appointed by their king after capture. “In my opinion, Your Grace – we have a prime opportunity to pursue them. Strike at them, and strike hard.”

Jon nodded. “Send a reply to Aegon and Lord Tarly – I give them permission to take half the fleet and pursue if they so wish. The rest is to remain anchored at the Shields. I get the feeling Euron Greyjoy is not finished with the Reach just yet.”

As Royce bowed and departed, heading for the raven tower Jon sighed, rubbing his forehead. He turned wearily towards his chambers, throwing the door open with all of his might – it had been another long and tiring day. He wanted nothing more then to relax, perhaps spend some time with Sansa...

“Sansa? I'm here.” he called out, looking about the apartment. There was no sign of her; _perhaps she'd decided to take a walk in the garden_ , he thought to himself. The Grand Maester had told her it was good to stay in shape as the due date approached, but even so.

* * *

As he entered the bedroom Jon let out a startled cry and jumped backwards, grabbing for Longclaw.

Two figures stood in the darkened chamber, both shrouded in cloaks. “Wait! It's alright!” one of them called, raising their hands in surrender. “It's me, Your Grace – Harwin.” he continued, pulling his hood down to reveal the former Stark retainer.

Jon raised a brow. “How did you get in here?” he asked, still thumbing at the hilt.

“The Brotherhood has friends outside of the Riverlands, you know.” he noted, shrugging idly as he removed the cloak. “The Lady wanted to speak with you in person.”

The second figure removed their cloak – to reveal the pale, scarred and scowling face of Lady Stoneheart herself. Jon's heart sank into his feet – as it did every time he had to look at that accursed visage of hers. The woman that had been Catelyn Stark was no more; replaced by this effigy.

“I plan to keep my end of the bargain -” he began. Stoneheart cut him off, her raspy hissing sending a chill up his spine.

Harwin shook his head. “The Lady knows you'd thought about playing us false. She says it's...only obvious, given who you are.”

* * *

Jon would be lying if he had not considered it. The very idea of yielding up such a valuable prisoner – even one as contemptible as Jaime Lannister – still weighed heavily on him. Had he told the lords of the Small Council his plans, it was likely he'd have a full blown rebellion on his hands. Therefore, he was always thinking – trying to find ways to gain the allegiance of Stoneheart and her people without such a drastic measure.

“A compromise.” he said after a tense moment.

Stoneheart did not like that. She grabbed her throat and wheezed, “NO....compromises....”

Jon raised a hand. “Petyr Baelish and Roose Bolton are prisoners in Winterfell and the Eyrie, respectively. I will give you them in exchange for your support. Both House Bolton and Baelish are extinct, finished; their uses....are over. I know Roose Bolton was the one who killed Robb – and Baelish helped to betray Fath – Lord Stark here in King's Landing.”

“Kingslayer!” Stoneheart growled.

Jon dared to reach out and place a hand against her dead flesh. “What is better – two of the men responsible for the near-destruction of House Stark through their actions, or a man who you believe was involved due to a remembered whisper?”

The skin was dry and cold, feeling as tough and stiff as leather. He studied her eyes, the yellow orbs flickering ever so slightly in the dark. “I've only kept them alive so as to enact their punishments myself. It would be fitting if you were the one to do it though.” he said, silently wiping his hand on his sleeve.

Stoneheart nodded. Harwin turned to her as she rasped out another series of unintelligible words. “The Lady says it will do, for now. But she warns you, Jon – King or no King, if you try to deny her the vengeance she needs -”

Jon shook his head. “I promise you, Jaime Lannister will be brought to account for all he has done. Now, do I have your support?”

“When they're turned over, yes.” Harwin said, a smile cracking on his face. “We will see you soon.”

* * *

As both figures moved off towards their entry point – an open window facing the east garden – Jon suddenly felt a surge of guilt raise in his chest. “Would you like to see Sansa? She is great with child – the master says it will only be a matter of time before she gives birth.”

Stoneheart stopped, turning back to face him. Jon noticed her hands were shaking slightly as she pulled her cloak up around her head. What remained of her lips – as scarred and cracked as they were – gave the faintest hint, once more of a smile before she shook her head no.

Jon said nothing, merely nodding as the two slipped out into the night air.

* * *

 

 

 


	24. Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gives birth. Jon is there and doesn't really know any good names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you knoe nothing jon snoe

Jon squeezed Sansa's hand as she let out another pained cry, her face dripping with sweat as she struggled with the birthing process. A sheet had been placed over her legs, under which Grand Maester Ebrose was trying to help ease the child free.

“Again, Your Grace...one more push...” the man croaked.

The sounds of a high pitched cry was like music to Jon's ears. Sansa slumped over in the bed, panting furiously in exhaustion. Jon could see that her face was awash with both pain and fatigue as she smiled weakly towards him.

Ebrose emerged from the blankets, cradling a bundle. “Congratulations, my king and queen. A beautiful, healthy baby girl.” he said, offering a kindly smile to them as he handed the baby to Jon.

Taking the bundle with shaking hands, Jon looked upon his daughter for the first time as she continued to cry. He gently patted her back with his hand as he rocked her in his arms, which seemed to ease the wailing somewhat.

Her eyes were the first thing Jon took note of. They were as grey as his own, the orbs shifting this way and that as the babe looked about the room frantically as she tried to take in her new surroundings. A small tuft of hair was visible on her head, and he could already see that their daughter would have the same hair as Sansa did.

* * *

It was almost a relief at this point. He exhaled softly, continuing to stare in astonishment at this child he helped create. It was only a gentle nudge from Sansa that stirred him free of his stupor.

“May I....hold her, Jon?” she asked, sitting up in the bed with the help of the maester. He placed the babe in her arms as she cooed happily, placing a kiss upon her squirming brow. He smiled; Sansa's constant preparation for the birth seemed to have paid off as the crying stopped the moment she began to cradle their daughter.

Jon let out a nervous laugh. “Looks like she likes you better.” he grinned.

Sansa looked over to him as the maester wiped her face with a damp rag. “We will...need a name.” she whispered, the babe now gurgling in her arms.

“Can't say I know any good names.” he admitted, rubbing his forehead awkwardly as he looked about the room. “I was kind of hoping you had some in mind, Sansa. To be honest.”

She laughed, a sincere and honest sound that made him smile. She had been a mixture of worried and anxious about the arrival of the babe, and had constantly been researching on ancient remedies and treatments for preventing a stillbirth. Jon wanted to dismiss her concerns as unwarranted – yet he could not bring himself to do so.

“How about Lyarra?” she asked, running a hand along the top of the baby's head. “Lyarra Targaryen. A mixture of North and South.”

* * *

 _A good name,_ Jon thought.

He had always enjoyed Maester Luwin's tales of the Starks that had come before when growing up in Winterfell – it allowed him to imagine the kinds of people they were and how they had been. Lyarra Stark was Lord Eddard's mother – making her both he and Sansa's grand-mother.

“I like it.” Jon nodded his assent. He still did not want the child to grow up with the last name of Targaryen – it felt an insult to who he was as a person. Yet the realm needed an heir, boy or girl; and despite his own identity as a son of the north – he was now king in the south, and had to follow the traditions as agreed.

Ebrose took Lyarra from Sansa as he cradled the now sleeping newborn in his arms. “Your Grace – the Lady Sansa needs her rest.” he noted, gesturing to the door. “we should allow her a few hours of sleep so she may begin to recover her strength.”

Jon nodded, leaning over to kiss Sansa's forehead softly. “Get some rest.” he whispered, “when you're awake we can fuss about her some more.”

Sansa smiled. “Don't do too much fussing without me.”

* * *

 

 


	25. Ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another story in the past; this takes place just after Stannis and Jon have reclaimed Winterfell from House Bolton.

The Winterfell that he returned to was not the one he knew.

Aside from the signs of the chaotic and pitched battle that had raged around them – piles of rubble and corpses everywhere – Jon saw nothing of the castle of his youth. Everything felt...different, somehow. As though it was tainted from the mere presence of the Bolton forces who had previously occupied it.

It had been a long and hard road to get here; especially in the dead of winter, with the snow constantly falling even now as the fighting died down to a mere din around them. Sheathing his blade, Jon looked about the yard as the Bolton prisoners were forced to clean up the dead.

It did give him some satisfaction to watch as the flayed man banners and flags were pulled down, even as no standard replaced it. Jon knew that the future of the North, of House Stark – everything – depended on the events of the next few days.

* * *

 

He found Stannis in the Great Hall, having just accepted Roose Bolton's surrender. Bolton himself was a fairly unassuming man – even now in defeat, his face showed little emotion. After the Manderly forces had switched sides mid battle, after his own soldiers were cut down by the rebellious northmen; Jon wondered if the man was human.

Stannis rose to his feet, turning to face Jon as the Boltons were lead away. “Lord Snow.” he nodded as he wiped his face clean of blood and sweat with a damp rag, “how does it feel? To stand in the halls of your home once more.”

Jon shook his head, gazing about. This was where he and his family had feasted; where he had bonded with the squires and stable hands, where he and Arya had pranked one another. “It's....not the same, my lord.” he said, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“It will be whole again.” Stannis replied firmly. “now, the only question is who shall rule it. As you are well aware, I cannot remain in this frigid tundra for long. I must continue south to press my claim.”

 _I wonder which southerner will try to hold the castle,_ Jon thought ruefully. “My true-born siblings must be found. We know now that Bran and Rickon still live -”

Stannis scoffed. “The fat one – Manderly – tells me that he sent Ser Davos to some cannibal-infested island to find the youngest boy. Yet he is also the same man who said to all the realm that he'd executed my Onion Knight. A trick, he claims – yet am I to believe him?”

Skagos was not a place for anyone, especially not Rickon. The news of his survival alone was a cause for celebration; yet the destination he'd reached was anything but. “House Manderly came through for you when it was desperately needed, my lord.” he pointed out, taking a seat with a relaxed sigh. “and when they claim to know where Rickon is – I would deign to trust them.”

He watched as Stannis's jaw clenched and released several times. “Came through for me, aye. Yet he remained a turn-coat until his options were exhausted. Still – I pardoned my brother's lords after his death. I would be a fool to dismiss his fealty especially now. His men will come in hand in my march.”

Staring out of the window Jon watched as the corpses were loaded into wagons and pulled out beyond the gates. The snow was still coming down, but had slowed to a faint sprinkling. Still the draft horses struggled to trudge their way through the deep snows beyond the castle.

“A solution.” Stannis stated, drawing his attention back. “I will remain here one week to resupply and take stock of my army. Then we move south to pass through the swamps guarded by those crannog men you spoke so highly of. I will allow the smaller houses to retain their own men here in the North – Umber, Hornwood, and the like. The rest will follow me. Your forces, small as they are will remain here in Winterfell.”

Jon nodded. A reasonable plan.

“Until your brother is found, Winterfell will need someone to rule it.” he continued, tapping his foot. “I believe I have made my choice.”

“If I may, my lord – someone from the North would be the most viable choice,” Jon started to say before Stannis silenced him with a wave.

“I, Stannis of House Baratheon, First of my Name. King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm hereby name you, Jon Snow as Acting Lord of Winterfell until such a time that your brother Rickon is found.” he commanded, turning to face Jon with a firm nod.

* * *

Jon felt himself growing faint. He began to sway slightly in his seat, his vision growing blurred. “I...I am a bastard, my lord. I am not...”

“Worthy?” Stannis cut him off. “You proved your bravery and courage both on the Wall and during our fight here. You command an army – a small one, but an army none the less – loyal to you and you alone. Bastard as you are, you are still the son of Eddard Stark. They will follow you.”

Jon shook his head. “But I am a -”

“Sworn brother?” he shrugged, turning to face the far window. “Sworn to an order that tried to have you killed? As far as I am concerned, your service to the Night's Watch is concluded. I have offered to legitimize you before and you refused me. You refused to swear your fealty to me. However, as a condition of my appointment I will tell you what I expect not only of you, but of the North.”

Jon braced himself for what was to come. “I will not ask you to swear loyalty to me, given that you are only the acting lord until your brother is found. However, upon his return and ascension as Lord of Winterfell I will demand he send a raven swearing fealty, service and loyalty to me as the rightful King of Westeros. In return, I will invest Rickon Stark as Warden of the North.”

Stannis tapped his hands together behind his back. “If your brother refuses to do such a thing I will have no options but to march north and install my own Warden, loyal to me. Have I made myself clear?”

There was no real choice to be made for Jon – he had to save his brother, and his people from another southern king imposing his own people upon them. “Perfectly, my lord.” he replied quietly.

“Good. Now, Lord Snow – you have a castle to command. I suggest you begin at once.”

* * *

 


	26. Stresses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is stressed out.

The realm rejoiced at the news of Lyarra's birth.

From King's Landing to Sunspear and Highgarden, the people of Westeros celebrated a royal birth. Missives of congratulations poured in from every region and every House, great or small. Invitations for the royal family to attend hundreds of balls, galas and festivals in their honour also came in by the dozens; so many ravens now flew to the Red Keep that Jon had to ask the Grand Maester to bring on some apprentices.

Still, the arrival of a princess was a joyful time. Many in the keep were in high spirits, and even Jon found himself thinking with a more positive attitude then he had before. Sansa had recovered nicely and was relieved to have given birth safely.

* * *

“She's beautiful.” he whispered as the proud parents watched her sleep. She was only two weeks old yet in those two weeks Jon had already learned a great deal about parenthood – mostly that he was woefully unprepared, still struggling with simple tasks as holding her.

Sansa – having been prepared from a young age for motherhood – was a different story, and he thanked the old gods and new alike that she was the child's mother. Even with the presence of a nanny to watch Lyarra at odd hours she preferred to take charge of their daughter by herself.

Jon leaned down and ran a finger along her forehead as she slept, the sensation being totally alien to him. Even now, his daughter was something so...new and foreign. He had long ago sworn to never father a bastard child, given his own status; he never wanted that shame to be spread by any seed of his.

Yet here he was, the King of Westeros – fathering a child with a woman who was once his half-sister. And his daughter would one day rule the realm as Queen, provided that a son was not born to the royal couple. “I wish I could ignore the chair and spend my days with you, sweet one.” he cooed.

Sansa, having taken a seat in a chair nearby beckoned him away. “Let her sleep, Jon. She needs all the rest she can get else she will be fussy in the morrow.”

Nodding, he took a seat beside her. “I feel this...sensation, in my bones. It is hard to explain.” he admitted, wiping his forehead. “almost as though...as though if I were to leave her, even for a moment – something would happen.”

He did not expect Sansa to laugh as she did, reaching out to pat his hand softly. “It is called parenthood. I feel the same for our daughter as you do, Jon – it is only natural given both who she is to us and her young age.”

“Seven hells, I must sound an idiot.” he sighed sheepishly.

She shook her head, returning her gaze to the crib. “No, you sound like a father. Truly, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Mother...she did her best to prepare me for the time I would birth a child, so I would be ready and not afraid.”

Jon nodded. “And now here you are, given birth to a child fathered by your former half brother.” he said, offering a gentle chuckle. “I don't think Lady Stark would have seen this..”

“I can already tell that you are a wonderful father with her, Jon.” Sansa smiled, squeezing his hand tight. “and now that she had come, we both can work on the other issues facing the kingdom.”

* * *

And what issues they were. The trial for Cersei Lannister and Stannis Baratheon was due to begin within the month, the date having been pushed back following Lyarra's birth. Aegon and his forces had liberated the Shields from the ironborn, yet there was still no sign of Euron Greyjoy.

Ravens had come from the riverlands; Asha Greyjoy would be arriving in King's Landing in roughly two weeks, and he would need to be ready to present the case for her rulership over the Iron Islands proper.

There was also the more...illicit dealings he was involved with. Baelish and Roose Bolton were en route to the Riverlands as ordered, entrusted by a small group of Targaryen soldiers from the capital itself. Jon would need to ride for Oldstones upon their arrival so as to hand them over to the Brotherhood himself, as part of the agreement.

Of course, the main elephant in the room was in the north. The Wall was still undermanned, even with the reinforcement from Winterfell. Jon had already planned the defence of the realm from the Others and he would need to lead the southern armies towards Castle Black soon.

 _Kill the boy, and let the man be born._ Even now with the birth of his daughter in the back of his mind Jon knew he could not simply rest on the laurels he now held as king. “I would welcome that help, Sansa. You know this. The sooner we fix these problems – especially with the ironmen – the sooner I can lead our forces north.”

She bit down on her lip and nodded, her eyes growing wide for the briefest of moments. “Jon – can you not entrust this to someone else? Aegon is more then willing to lead the army -”

“I have to do this, Sansa. The Long Night is coming – and we must be ready. Only with my leadership can the armies of Westeros hope to have a chance.” he said, shaking his head as he spoke, “that is not arrogance talking, either. I know them. I have to be there to face them down – be it victory or defeat.”

“I trust you.” she smiled, folding her hands together, “though I only ask because...well, I want Lyarra to grow up with her father. But from what you say about the Others – it seems if you do not go then no child in the realm will grow up – at all.”

* * *

Jon's heart ached. His body ached. His mind ached. He wanted an end to this; to all of the wars, violence and chaos plaguing the Seven Kingdoms. An end to the politicking that ruled King's Landing – the backstabbing and betrayals, the secret deals and the trials. He longed for the North, for Winterfell.

Sansa grasped at his hand gently. “Jon? Are you alright?”

“Just...thinking.” he sighed. _About how you and Lyarra deserve to be home, in the North – not in this viper's den._ “I see them in my dreams. The Others – like what we saw at Hardhome. I should be on the Wall, leading our forces as they garrison the castles, prepare defences and the like. Instead, I have to deal with fucking squids.”

She nodded, her eyes darting away from him. “For me to...help you, Jon. I need to know – what did you see at Hardhome?”

He knew she would ask him, eventually. “I had sent Cotter Pyke and as many ships as possible from Eastwatch to rescue the Free Folk. His raven said things were dire. I was going to give command to Tormund, but – after I was attacked, I thought it best for me to lead the rescue personally.”

Jon's face grew hard. “It was....beyond anything I had ever seen. The snowstorm was so thick you could barely see a hand in front of your face. The cold was bone-chilling as well. There were thousands of dead and dying wildlings everywhere, and those left were forced to eat the dead. And....gods, I remember seeing not just the wights, but the Others and their ice spiders. Beautiful, in their alien and elegant way.”

“I watched them raise the dead into more wights. They flooded the town on all sides. The walls barely held for a day after I arrived. We...we managed to save a few thousand, maybe. The rest – if we hadn't of left, we would all be dead.”

Sansa's face had grown pale. She remained still as Jon let out a nervous chuckle. “You...wanted to know. Don't ask me any more details Sansa, please.”

“Can we win?” she asked, plain and serious.

Jon looked to her and smiled. It was a fleeting sort. “We have to try.”

* * *

 

 


	27. AN UPDATE

Just wanted to let you guys know I'm sorry for my prolonged absence. Changing jobs rapidly - twice in 1 month - can do that to someone. Anyway, I have every plans to start writing fics for this story again, so stay tuned! Thank you again for your comments and lovely support. I promise not to let you down.


	28. Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon oversees an exchange.

Oldstones was, as ever, shrouded in silence. The ancient ruined walls sat ominously all around the royal party, and Jon had his hand to his sword automatically, as though expecting an attack. For his part, Grenn was the same way; pacing nervously around the collapsed sepulchre.

“Are we sure this isn't a trap, Your Grace?” the Kingsguard asked, coming to a halt.

Jon shook his head. “They'll be here.” he affirmed, staring down at the remains of the stones that once made up the castle. He wondered of the history in this place; what great kings or lords ruled the lands from these halls? _What sights and sounds did they experience all these thousands of years ago?_

The rustling of trees and the sound of strong footsteps indicated a coming. Turning about, Jon took note of the party – it was the Targaryen forces he'd sent to escort the captives, Ser Ronnet leading the way. The man offered a graceful bow as his men stepped into the sepulchre.

“Your Grace,” he began, smiling confidently. “The prisoners, as ordered.”

The guards shoved the two hooded and bound figures forward, both of them collapsing to their knees in front of him. Jon's heart raced as he watched both men; they barely made a sound as they remained as still as stone, their only sounds being that of their breath.

Jon nodded and the guards removed their hoods. Roose Bolton and Petyr Baelish looked around, both with perplexed expressions upon their faces.

* * *

 

“Your Grace,” Baelish spoke first, offering another of his fake smiles. “Forgive me, but...we seem to be away some distance from the Eyrie.”

This was the man who put Sansa through the hell she endured, posing as his bastard daughter. This was the man who betrayed Eddard Stark; the man who Jon knew in his heart was the one who spread the revelations about his parentage.

“You are a perspective man, my lord.” Jon grumbled, his tone harsh and cold. “Yes, you and your companion have been brought here to answer for your crimes.”

Roose Bolton offered the faintest hint of a smirk. “What trial have we endured?” he asked, his voice as quiet as a whisper, “pray-tell, Your Grace – what crimes have we committed?”

Clenching his fists, Jon seethed. Bolton had been the one responsible for the murder of both Robb and Catelyn Stark – among thousands of other north-men – due to his hunger for power and desire to advance himself and his house. “You know of what I speak, Lord Bolton.”

_I will not waste my breath on such a man._

Bolton nodded, his eyes remaining as dead as the man's pale skin. “As you say. I wonder if these are the same words you spoke to Lord Stannis after the Battle of Darry, hmm? Did you treat him with such contempt, I pray ask? It seems the King of Westeros has the same soft heart that his cousin once did.”

 _It won't be long now._ “Were it my choice, the punishment you receive would be far less forgiving then this one. I assure you – both of you.” Still, Jon felt the embers of rage burning in his heart; he should be back in the capital, preparing for the many trials yet to come, or learning how to be a proper father to Lyarra or husband to Sansa.

Instead he was here. Dealing with the same scum that had caused so much harm to his family.

Baelish snorted. “Enough with the dramatics, my lord. Please – see it done, then.” His voice dripped with the same fakery that it always had – even facing death, these men would not show fear. At least, not now.

Shaking his head, Jon gestured to the trees. “The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. Those were my father's words – words that I do my best to live by as King, responsible for all seven kingdoms, My Lord.” he glared towards Baelish once more, “but I will not be passing judgment upon you. The Brotherhood will.”

* * *

From the trees came the man with the yellow cloak – the original messenger who had approached the royal caravan some months ago – who grinned towards the king. “How did you know we was here already, m'lord?” he asked, mildly surprised.

“I'm disappointed,” Bolton whispered, shaking his head. “You hand us to outlaws to do your executions, then? Are you not a dragon – bathing the world in fire and blood, as it were? It seems a bastard is a bastard, no matter their colours.”

Jon nodded towards the outlaw. “Is your Lady here?”

“Of course, Jon.” came another voice from the trees. Harwin and another half-dozen bandits emerged, all of whom armed with spears and swords. The northman himself was holding a noose, smiling eerily towards the royal party. “She's here. And she is grateful for your delivery.”

“I would ask you pass the sentence while I am here.” Jon added. He wanted some measure of justice for Robb and Sansa – for the whole of the Starks, no matter where they were. “Call it a King's prerogative.”

He thought longingly of Arya. How he missed his little sister; he wanted to ruffle her hair and hug her tightly, never letting go. _Look, little sister, I'm a king now._

The outlaws went to their knees as the Lady emerged from the trees – hooded and covered, as she preferred to be – and studied the two men, her yellow eyes boring into them with the same murderous hatred they had for every Frey and Bolton and Lannister she had hung.

“The Lady Stoneheart, I presume?” Baelish bowed his head. “I believe you will find me worth a very healthy ransom. You and your...brotherhood...will be richly rewarded should you deliver me, alive and unharmed, to Heart's Home in the Eyrie.”

She growled out a response, her hands clenching together. Harwin offered a sinister smile. “The Lady is in no mood to speak of ransom. Especially with oathbreakers and traitors, as both of you are.” Following that, she went to one knee and grasped Baelish's head with one talon, looking him over.

Jon watched her apprehensively. “They are unharmed as promised. Now, before I surrender them to you – I want your word.” he stated, his tone firm and resolute. “The crown now has your support, unequivocally in the restoration of the riverlands.”

She hissed. Harwin nodded. “She agrees. You have it.”

“All this for the support of bandits? I'm disappointed, Lord Snow.” Baelish mocked, twisting away from her grip, “sweet Sansa spoke so highly of you in the end – before she came to wed you...”

That set her over the edge. Stoneheart grabbed him by the throat, lifting him to his feet. She screeched and howled a string of unintelligible words at the frightened noble. Her nails squeezed around his throat, Baelish trying to raise his hands in a feeble effort to defend himself.

“Cut them free.” Jon commanded, watching the scene with an expressionless face. _Kill the boy, and let the man be born._ He thought of Maester Aemon's words – still relevant to him, especially now more then ever. “They belong to the Brotherhood now.”

Within moments the captives were cut loose of their bonds, the outlaws bringing Bolton to his feet – leading them towards their hanging tree, a large elm with stout and thick branches. Jon watched as Stoneheart – the wraith once Catelyn Stark – removed her hood, revealing her snarling face towards the two.

Baelish reacted almost at once. He fell to his knees, eyes wide with both fear and recognition. “Cat?” he whispered, his voice losing all of its arrogance – indeed, it seemed almost childlike in its sincerity now. “How is this possible? You...you're alive?”

* * *

Roose Bolton also reacted, though more silently; his eyes widened with fear and he stiffened – a sight Jon had to suppress a smile at.

“Not...Cat...” she hissed towards Baelish as he was lead to the noose. The man fell to his knees, grabbing at her legs. His eyes were full and tear-stained. She merely glared towards him – her eyes still full of hate.

“I've loved you since we were children! I looked after Sansa – I did what I could to...to keep her safe from the Lannisters. You can't kill me!” he pleaded, “you mean the world to me -”

“HANG HIM!” she screamed, her voice crackling and harsh.

* * *

 

Jon watched the bodies swinging from the tree with a sense of satisfaction. A great weight had been lifted from his chest – he had achieved some small justice for Sansa and Robb. He nodded as the Lady and Harwin came to stand at his side.

“It's done, then.” he stated, folding his arms and exhaling softly.

The Lady breathed out her hisses, shaking her head in the negative. “The Lady says that it won't be over until the Kingslayer swings.” She looked expectantly at Jon; the glare from her yellowed eyes sending a shiver up his spine.

 _This again._ “Then you will be waiting a long time, I fear.” Jon would not relent. He could not simply turn someone as prolific as Jaime Lannister over to the outlaws to hang. Bolton and Baelish were prisoners, disgraced and awaiting their deaths – but the Kingslayer still had friends. _Lord Tyrion, for one._

He felt the talons squeeze his arm as she glared at him once more, a sneer forming on her lips. “No...more...waiting...” she wheezed. “Want....revenge...for this....”

“I know you do.” Jon nodded, “and I want nothing more then to give him to you. But as King, I cannot.”

Grenn advanced behind him, eyeing the pair with his hand over his blade. “Unhand His Grace, now.” he threatened, glaring towards the wraith.

She let his arm fall, shaking her head. More hisses and wheezing. “The Lady hopes you will reconsider, Your Grace.” Harwin translated. “Else she fears your reign will not be as long as you like.”

That was too far. Jon grasped her arm and spun her around to face him. He forced the revulsion and unease from his mind to glare at her, his hard eyes boring into what remained of her own. “I have just handed you two valuable condemned men to hang. Two men I would have loved nothing more then to excuse myself. I gave them to you because I know what you suffered. What Robb suffered.”

He fingered the hilt of his blade, “but I promise you, my lady – I am not a boy to be tormented any longer. If you or your brotherhood try anything – I will act, and I will act with all available strength at my disposal.”

Jon dropped his grasp of her arm, the feeling of the cold and clammy flesh causing him to flinch instinctively. A tense silence followed the exchange, both leaders staring at one another. Waiting to see who would blink first.

“I have a war to fight,” Jon said, breaking the standoff. “in the North – a war against the dead. I cannot be fighting insurrection in my own borders as well. The Brotherhood aids us in rebuilding. I gave you Bolton and Baelish. Robb would have given you neither.”

* * *

She nodded swiftly and turned around, stomping off into the forest, her retinue of brothers following quickly behind. Jon exhaled, relief flooding over his body as their foosteps grew more and more distant.

“Are you alright, Your Grace?” Grenn asked, inspecting his arm.

Jon nodded. “I'm glad this is over. For now.”

It took them only a moment to rejoin Connington and the royal escort. Ser Ronnet was not pleased with the situation; “I wish you had let us capture the Stoneheart woman alive, Your Grace. It would have allowed us more leverage over gaining their allegiance.”

But Jon was not about to do that. Not because he did not want to – but because looking into those eyes showed him that she did not care. “They'll obey. If they do not, well...the river lords know this land almost as much as they do.”

His thoughts turned to King's Landing, to Sansa and Lyarra. “Ready our caravan. We make for King's Landing at first light.” _I need a chance to be something of a father before the world ends._

 


	29. Double-Dealing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crown offers a deal to a former enemy.

Asha Greyjoy was certainly an impressive woman, Sansa mused. With her own merits – and perhaps merely aided by her name alone – she was able to rise to a position of respect and rank in a traditionally male-dominated society such as the Ironborn.

Yet even as she sat, idly picking at her fingernails with a dagger, she showed none of the same smug arrogance that any of the other iron-men had shown; based on both her own interactions with them and stories Jon had told her.

Folding her hands on the desk, Sansa steeled herself. “I trust you've found the King's proposition an interesting one, then. Given you haven't stormed away in rage – as some of your people are wont to do under these circumstances.” she implied, keeping a neutral smile on her face.

Asha offered a snicker at that. “Aye, I've seen it. Imagine my surprise, Lady Stark! Almost two years in that dungeon only to be whisked away and sent south at a King's command. Here, I thought it would be Euron sending for me to die for challenging him.”

The Small Council had kept her abreast of the situation in the Iron Islands – there was still no sign of the mysterious Crow's Eye; it was as though he had gone silent. The ironborn still raided up and down the Mander, and Aegon's forces had won several smaller victories against them as they moved closer to Pyke. “Your uncle is...well, a nuisance to the well being of the Seven Kingdoms. We both know that, as does the King.”

Yawning, Asha nodded. “Nuisance? That's putting it mildly. He's a monster, that one.” she drove the dagger into the desk, offering a mischievous smirk. But Sansa did not flinch – she could show no weakness around people such as this, and in that she was well versed.

Sansa shrugged. “Monster or no, we both share a common enemy. The crown believes that yours would be the strongest, most stable rule for the ironborn in comparison to that of the current occupant.”

That drew a laugh from her. “Oho, Lady Sansa – I'm touched. But I've no desire to become a puppet ruler. My people are a free people – and a free people we'll remain. While it's true that the Old Way is not one that can last, aye, I can no more end it with a wave of my hand as you can.”

This was a given, yet she'd met with Victarion Greyjoy as Jon did – and was not impressed with him. To Sansa, he was merely a continuation of the old Greyjoy ways of raiding and raving. And from what Jon said, there was no time to deal with a lengthy civil war among the iron-men. They had to get North, now. Every minute of delay was another minute that the Others could be descending upon the Wall.

“It seems the crown has two choices, Lady Asha. You – a woman who means to reform the iron-men to be more long lasting, and to leave a seafaring legacy for her children and grand-children – or your uncle Victarion, who would continue this ridiculous “Old Way” that will eventually lead to the Iron Islands being bathed in fire and blood.” Sansa's razor thin smile betrayed her words; _what would be worse? Accepting our help, or total destruction?_

Asha frowned, her face going from humored to serious in a moment's notice. “If you mean to threaten me into obedience -” she began, before Sansa interrupted with a wave of the hand and a slight laugh.

“No threats, Lady Greyjoy.” she said, leaning back in her seat, “merely words to consider. I know you want what is best for your people – as I do mine. But tell me, is this current path truly the best way forward? Swallowing your pride and accepting our offer is no shame.”

The woman shuffled uncomfortably in her seat. “It's easy for you to say that as a green-lander queen, Lady Stark. But you don't know the iron-men as I. It took me this long to fight my way to captain mine own vessel, with those loyal to me of two breeds; willing to fight for me or fuck me. If I accept the help of the crown, they'll rip out my guts – after they get done raping me.”

Sansa knew she had an opening. The way Asha's body shifted, the unease in her eyes. “Who said anything about the crown putting you on the Seastone Chair? We would merely facilitate the demise of Euron and your other uncle. Once they are put down, you can begin the process of changing the Iron Islands to something more...lasting.”

Asha bit down on her lip, her hands twitching. She stayed silent for a moment, considering her options carefully. “My father once said that there is no shame in kneeling – that he who kneels may rise again, blade in hand. He who does not kneel stays dead, stiff legs and all. A grim comparison, granted – but it applies all the same here.”

She folded her hands on the table. “Allow me a day to consider your words. That's all I ask.”

Sansa nodded. “Of course.” She gestured to the door, “and I hope you do make the right decision, my lady. The Iron Throne is forgiving to those who can reach an accord.” _It is now, at least._

* * *

“I do think she will agree.” Sansa said, folding her arms. At her side stood Yohn Royce, who wore a skeptical expression upon his face.

Royce had made it clear to both Jon and herself that he did not trust any of the iron-men; and in truth, Sansa sympathized with his position. She would have rather not dealt with any of the Greyjoys, given all the grief that they had inflicted upon the North. But sometimes, a ruler must make decisions that he or she may not be personally happy with.

The Master of Laws shook his head. “The iron-men are backstabbers, my lady. They will turn on you and the King the first chance they get.” he grumbled, gesturing to the map before him, “this is our opportunity to say damn their laws – we occupy the Iron Islands as King Robert did, only this time we install a leader that is agreeable to the interests of the Throne.”

Another tempting offer – one she and Jon had discussed – but a futile suggestion. “It would never work, my lord. They are a proud people; the moment our ships turned for the Mander they would overthrow the ruler and begin the fight anew.”

Pacing the length of the chamber, Royce sighed. “Still, Lord Tarly has the scum on the run. This Euron Crow's Eye – he's not been seen since the attack on the Shields. The prisoners that were taken swear they do not know his location.”

Sansa was not assured. “They are a treacherous people, as you mentioned. He is likely biding his time for another assault – one we will not be prepared for. Now, Lord Royce – I beg your pardon. I must attend to my daughter.”

“How is the Princess, my lady?” the man asked, smiling softly. A father himself, Royce understood the stresses of parenthood well.

Despite the first few weeks being a struggle for her, Sansa had adapted well to motherhood. Lyarra was – when not with her wet nurse or sitter – always at her side, the tiny babe sleeping or cooing in her crib every moment of the day. She loved to pull at her mother's hair – and her crying sometimes kept them both awake at night.

She still would not trade it for the world. “Wonderfully. She misses her father, I can tell.”

Still, her daughter enjoyed being held by Jon – and even though he professed his ignorance and awkwardness around the babe, he was a good father all the same – and his absence, she felt, was the reason for her prolonged cries at night.

Royce nodded. “As babes they want to know their parents well. My own children were all the same – why I recall Waymar screaming so loud it shook the castle walls when either myself or his mother would leave the room.”

His face darkened as he spoke of his third-born son; Sansa knew that he had been lost beyond the Wall, vanishing on his first ever ranging and was likely among the army of the dead as Jon described it. “I....one bit of advice from one parent to another, your grace? Treasure every moment with them. We all do not know what the fates have in store for us.”

Sansa knew that was the truth – _the fates surely had an interesting life in store for me_ , she mused. From the spoiled, naive young girl she had been when her father had been named Hand of the King to now – a grown, hardened woman who sat as Queen, wed to her former half-brother-turned cousin.

Looking to one of the windows, she gazed down into the courtyard of the Red Keep. “Fate works in mysterious ways.” she whispered to herself.

* * *

 

 


	30. Bastard Chase Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and his men try to put an end to the Bastard of Bolton's reign. Another one set in Jon's past, just after Stannis has retaken Winterfell and left to march South. Jon is currently acting Warden of the North – his target is the escaped Bastard of Bolton.

Jon pulled his blade free of the dead Bolton's back, wiping the blood and viscera off in the snow. “Fan out. He can't have gone far!” he shouted as his party – consisting mostly of the Free Folk and a smattering of Northern troops – waded out into the forest in small groups.

Looking around, he saw the result of his ambush; a half-dozen Bolton troops, haggard and half-starved lay dead, their blood staining the snow and dirt around them. Yet even so the Bastard had evaded them; somehow, Ramsay Snow had managed to flee the siege just as his father surrendered the castle. He'd taken at least a hundred men – and the scouts believed he was riding for the Dreadfort at full haste.

“We won't find him around here, I'm thinking.” a voice called from behind. Turning around, Jon nodded to Val – who was in the process of cleaning blood from her spear, “should get back to heading toward the kneeler castle. At least I would.”

Jon was skeptical. “From what we've heard about him, that's not his way. He likes to play with people – like he did with Jeyne or even Theon.” A surge of anger rushed through him at the mention of Greyjoy; still, he had to remain calm. _He'll face punishment for his crimes._

Advancing towards his group Jon felt a stab of pain. His wounds were giving him grief again; dropping to one knee he opened his tunic and painfully inspected the bandage, now covered in a fair amount of blood and pus. Melisandre had insisted he stay behind – send others to do his fighting – but Jon refused; it was his duty to hunt down the Bastard.

Val knelt down next to him. “You should have listened to the red witch...she was right about this one, King Crow.” she whispered, smiling sympathetically at him. She put a gloved hand up to his forehead and frowned. “I'm no healer, but you're starting to get a fever again. Not too late to go back to your castle and cool down.”

Jon shook his head, pounding his fist into the snow. “I'm fine!” he grumbled, getting to his feet. “I...I fought at Winterfell. I can fight here.” The situation was different, however; the wounds had opened up after the battle and he was effectively fighting through the pain and agony to lead this chase.

The wildling woman helped him as he stumbled through the forest towards the rest of the group, who were searching a series of abandoned farmhouses. The Free Folk lead by Tormund were scouring the homes, many of them more interested in the contents left behind then their search for the Bastard.

Still, looting aside – Jon needed them. He needed the soldiers; those loyal to him, not to Stannis; most of the northern host was gone, marching south with his sizable force. “Tormund!” he shouted, bringing the big redhead from one of the structures. “Find anything?”

* * *

The man laughed, throwing what looked like a body onto the snow. However, the body began to move and Jon realized it was a still living Bolton soldier. “Har! Found this sorry shit sneakin' about inside. Got the drop on him, we did!” he bellowed.

Walking over to the man, Jon knelt down and pulled him off the snow. The man was, as the others under the Bastard's command, haggard looking; his face was caked with dirt and blood, yet he still stared hatefully towards him. “Where is he?” he asked, his voice hard and firm.

“Fuck you,” the man barked, spitting some of his blood onto the ground. “when he's done wit' your lot, you'll be begging for death, you will.”

Tormund slapped the man on his head, growling. “He's not gonna talk, Jon Snow! Let me handle 'im. I hear Bolting liver goes well with freshly killed game. Har!”

Val – who had moved to Tormund's side – snorted. She pulled a small walrus-hilt dagger from her belt, running her tongue along the blade's edge. “Give me a minute alone with him, King Crow. I'll have him squealing like a pig.”

Looking to her, Jon nodded and rose to his feet. _We must be prepared to do what it takes to save the realm,_ he knew at once. _Kill the boy, and let the man be born_. He wondered what Maester Aemon would think of this, however – it was all too strange, even for him.

Tormund gestured towards a nearby hilltop. Jon followed him for a few steps before grasping his side with pain. The wildling turned about and raised a brow. “That cunt Stannis was right when he said you shouldn't do everything. Look at ya! You're gonna kill yourself more then that bastard!” he exclaimed.

Waving a hand, Jon sighed. “I'll be fine. Just...need to get more of Val's salve after this.”

“Har!” he laughed, patting Jon's shoulder. “I'll bet you do!”

That made Jon laugh; Val certainly was an attractive woman, of that there was no doubt – but he could little afford a tryst, especially now. Especially after Ygritte. The wounds still hurt, even after all this time. She deserved better then a turn-cloak – someone who she could spend her life with in freedom and happiness. Yet it was his duty.

* * *

A harsh scream from their prisoner brought the men back to the group. Jon took note of the scene before them; Val had her knife to the man's crotch, a thin line of blood running onto the snow.

“Now tell King Crow what you told me,” she grinned, flicking her knife towards Jon. “or you lose it.”

The man nodded, his head bobbing frantically. “Alright! He's not g....going to th' Dreadfort.” he whimpered, hands covering his crotch, “K...Karhold. 'es on his way there with th' Karstark troops from the battle!”

Tormund scoffed. “Those words don't mean shit to me, har! What about you?” he asked, turning to Jon.

Nodding, Jon considered his options. Karhold was further away from the Bolton stronghold – but if the Bastard made it there, it would take many moons to starve him out. “It makes sense. How many men?” he asked, glaring at the prisoner.

“I dunno. I swear...” he pleaded, eyeing Val with fear.

Jon looked to her. “That's all he knows, yes?”

The man nodded, whimpering softly. “Please...let me go...”

Val shrugged, slashing her blade across the man's throat. Jon grimaced as blood spurted from the wound; the soldier fell onto his back, twitching and shaking only for a moment as his lifeblood spilled onto the snow, creating a great red puddle.

“Which way to Karhole?” Tormund asked, gesturing about.

Jon pointed off to the north-west. “That way. It's near the mountains closer to Winterfell. It'll take us a few days to -”

* * *

A round of clapping drew their attention away. Turning to the sound, Jon took note of a man sitting on a horse, a malevolent smirk upon his face as he applauded. The piercing blue eyes and ragged, feral appearance marked him at once – the Bastard of Bolton.

Jon's men moved to surround him, arrows and spears ready. Waving them off, Jon approached as he halted his horse, broad smile still on his lips.

“I've been wanting to meet you for some time, Jon Snow!” he exclaimed happily. “The legendary Bastard of Winterfell, in the flesh himself. Ripe for the picking.”

Shaking his head, Jon held his ground, feet planted firmly in the dirt. “I can't say I've heard flattering tales about you, Bastard.” he spat, a scornful glare forming. The long list of atrocities this man had committed – both in the name of House Bolton and for his own fanatical cruelty – had made his stomach turn.

It was almost satisfying to watch the smirk falter a moment, his eyes flashing with anger before composing himself. “Oh, my tales are plenty flattering – though not in the way your kind enjoy. My lord father also did not approve – though where is he now? A captive of your red king.”

“And while Roose Bolton yielded, you retreated.” Jon snorted, “instead of staying to fight like a man.”

Ramsay laughed, mockingly wiping his eyes. “You Starks and honor! Honor, and glory and fighting like a man – it's what got your dear father and brother killed. I've never put too much thought into honor.”

Eyeing the area of his approach, Jon took note of a half-dozen Bolton men moving into view. Their swords drawn, they kept eyes on the Free Folk but did not motion to attack. “Fuck honor, then. Let's end this now – you and I.” Jon said, raising his sword and pointing it towards him. “No honor or limits. Just one of us dead in the snow before the other.”

His challenge was met with an idle shrug. “I could do that – certainly, your skill with a blade is quite well known – but why would I want to? I'm no fool, Snow.” he smiled, nodding to the Free Folk. “And who's to say your gaggle of savages would ever respect a personal challenge?”

Clenching his teeth hard, Jon felt himself tense up. “They have more honour then you. They do not flay or rape or torture.” he spat. “Now, face me and die with what shred of honor you have left or don't. Either way, your reign of terror ends.”

* * *

“My reign is only just beginning, dear Snow.” Ramsay chuckled – before his horse's neck exploded in a torrent of blood, a spear sailing through its neck and missing it's rider by mere inches. The animal screamed as it went down, Ramsay barely managing to roll out of the way of the beast's weight.

As he did so, the Bolton soldiers rushed forward, engaging the first of Jon's party. As they did, he took note of at least a dozen, if not two dozen more soldiers rushing through the trees toward them – some of them wearing the Karstark sunburst.

“KILL THEM ALL!!” Ramsay bellowed, stumbling away towards the north-west, shoving his way through his troops.

* * *

 

 

 

 


	31. Reasons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon prepares to march North and is reminded of why he fights.

(just a bit of fluff for you guys to hold ya over. not enough jonsa on here I know I know sorry)

* * *

 

The royal garden in the Red Keep was Jon's favorite place to bring Lyarra; she loved to grope and reach for the various flowering vines and plants around where he'd sit down with her. Since his return from the Riverlands – and witnessing the deaths of Baelish and Bolton – he had spent many a day with his daughter in this manner.

Even though she was a few months old, Jon still found himself watching her as she slept, astonished that he had a hand in producing life. Growing so used to taking life, be it on the Wall or on campaign had hardened him to the simple joys.

 _I want to see as much of her as I can before we leave_ , he mused. With the situation in the Riverlands solved, he had officially called the banners to prepare for the march North. Aegon would remain and deal with the Greyjoy threat.

* * *

Jon stood over his desk, looking down at the various letters; some from large houses like the Tyrells or small ones like the Westerlings. All pledging their armies and support at due haste. Even though he had prepared for this moment, made himself ready for it – his outlook had changed.

“There's no time to wait.” he sighed, looking to Sansa. She was gently rocking Lyarra's crib, helping the fussy babe to sleep, “the last raven from the Wall said they've spotted scouts probing around both the Shadow Tower and Eastwatch.”

Sansa nodded, turning her gaze to him. She wore a neutral expression – she had a way with appearing calm in tense situations – but her eyes shone with fear. “How bad will it be?” she asked, caressing Lyarra's head.

Jon shrugged. “If we get there in time, it's hard to say. All the dragonglass we can muster, the Valyrian steel – we...we should have a chance. Key word being 'should”.” He'd put the Stormlands to work on one goal and one only – to mine Dragonstone clean; the castle held large deposits of the ore beneath its unnatural walls.

 _If._ He sighed, wiping his head softly. “The armies of the Seven Kingdoms – most of them – all marching under one banner.” he gestured, laughing, “and it only took the appearance of an army of the dead to make it happen.”

Sansa rose from the bed, gently covering the crib with a blanket. “No, Jon. You made it happen.” she smiled, crossing to where he stood. Her hair flowed over his shoulder as she kissed him gently on the cheek from behind.

The feeling of her lips on his skin sent a shiver through his spine. It was still taking some getting used to – the idea of thinking of her as a wife and not a sibling, even though they'd consummated their marriage – but it was a welcome and comforting feeling. “At least...now I have something to fight for.” he replied, turning to face her.

“We've endured our own trials, Jon. Yours and mine – both two different fates.” she continued, taking his hand in hers. “but we share fates now. That, and a bed, a daughter and – well, all this.”

* * *

Her smirk caused him to laugh. “Aye, I dragged you right back into the rat's nest, didn't I?” She had told him of her time in the capital when her and Arya had come here, and the tales of abuse and mistreatment had angered him greatly. “I never meant for any of this, I hope you know.”

“Of course not. Was it not Petyr's idea?” she shrugged, frowning at the mention of his name.

Jon nodded, clenching his teeth. “Rest assured, he's paid the price for his sins.” It had been Baelish who suggested the 'strategic union' of his natural daughter to Jon after the capture of King's Landing; as loath as he was to consider it, she'd been presented to him anyway, her brown hair quickly washed away to reveal Sansa's red curls.

She kissed his hand, the shivers returning at her touch. “I believe you. And I believe you will lead us through this Long Night, just like Azor Ahai did the last one. Or so the story says.” she mused softly.

“You've been doing your reading, I see.” Jon observed, an amused tone in his voice. “I'm not a god or a hero, Sansa. I'm just...plain old Jon Snow. I remind myself of that every day so as to piss off Aegon.”

That drew a laugh from her. “To her, you are.” she smiled, pointing to the crib. “I have the funniest feeling you two will be inseparable as she grows up.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I can't spend nearly as much time with her – and you – that I want to. All this business of being a King.”

Sansa kissed his cheek again. “You've got plenty of time to make up for it after we've won this war thanks to you.”

* * *

 

 


End file.
